


HOTSWAP :: Yet Another CYOA/SI/MC in Brockton Bay, With a Twist

by themanwhowas



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, Gen, Genderqueer, Genderswap, Pansexual Character, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 06:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 57
Words: 75,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themanwhowas/pseuds/themanwhowas
Summary: This is Completely Unoriginal, with one difference. It shouldn't take long to figure out what that difference is.For new readers: this is a Self Insert, with power-manipulation abilities, in Brockton Bay. Expect fucking about.Crossposting from SpaceBattles.





	1. Day 2.1 : Feminine Troubles

**Feminine Troubles**  
  
My shoulders were too narrow, everything was too tall, and my voice sounded nothing like mine.  
  
Worst of all, I was cramping like a _motherfucker_ , and absolutely nobody gave a shit. The men got various degrees of uncomfortable, even the goddamn on-shift nurse, and the women just looked at me like I was angry that water was wet. Armsmaster had hacked her own version of a no-period birth control injection she'd buried in design submissions for her early combat stimulants, Triumph got uncomfortable just talking _around_ the topic, Dauntless was one of those insufferable ‘I almost never get cramps’ types, Assault said the period sex was worth the mess, and Velocity spent most of her period running nonstop through the city. Stupid Breakers.  
  
Well, nobody gave a shit except Minuteman, who showed up to my quarters with a hot water bottle, a bottle of Midol, and a box of chocolates. Bless his patriotic heart. No matter the gender, Miss Militia was [best team mom](http://pollydoodles.tumblr.com/post/147110432158/latessitrice-pollydoodles-sashayed).  
  
It took me the better part of the morning to gather the courage for the next step.  
  
"Pads _are_ a thing, you know," Assault offered from the doorway of my room, having witnessed me stare at the unwrapped tampon and applicator for a full five minutes without moving.  
  
"I'm not wearing a goddamned _diaper_ , fuck you very much."  
  
Her smug grin turned to a suggestive leer, eyebrows waggling. "If not for Puppy, I'd offer to—"  
  
"Finish that sentence and I'll feed you the whole bumper pack."  
  
She just chuckled, as though I'd been joking. "If you are going to do it, could you at least do it between noon and noon-thirty? I've got ten bucks in the betting pool."  
  
I chucked a ball-peen hammer at her face without looking.  
  
Assault caught it, the smug bitch, and tossed it lightly in the air in an infuriatingly casual way. Before she could catch it again, it blurred to green energy and leapt back to my waist, where it resumed the form of a familiar, comfortable punch-knife belt buckle. It nestled neatly beneath the slowly cooling water bottle clutched desperately to my rioting insides. Getting my first period at age twenty-nine was a fucking _horror show_. How did _anyone_ put up with this? Every month, no less?  
  
The insufferable shit looked like she was going to keep talking, which was the final motivation I needed to—gingerly—storm over to the en-suite restroom and slam the door behind me.  
  
God help me, but I did it.  
  
I resolved to copy Armsmaster's injector designs fucking _soonest_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know. All the snippets and ideas in the world, and nothing gets me to actually write more than a few thousand words except Completely Unoriginal : Even Less Original. Hence why I almost didn't post it. But hey, I've actually finished the damn thing, pending final edits, so... well. We'll see if anyone likes it.
> 
> I want to thank my kind and generous betas, frustratedFreeboota and Kittius, as well as support/ideas from Cauldron/Discord users including EtchJetty, Husr, RagingCitrusTree, keira, and others. First few chapters are short, but gradually get longer. Expect a Kittius & Mixed Feelings crossover half as long as (and significantly better quality than) the original story, as is tradition. Omakes welcome.
> 
> Expect several chapters a day until it's done.


	2. Day 3.2 : Meet the Wards

**Meet the Wards**  
  
Minuteman waited in the hallway behind me as we waited for the mask alarm to cycle, making my shoulder blades itch. Even if I knew he was a sweetheart, even if he never once gave me unasked-for physical contact, even if he gave me more space than most other heroes, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable.  
  
Finally I heard a _thunk_ of the door lock and pushed my way through into the Wards' basement headquarters.  
  
A petite brunette was sitting on the couch next to a slightly shorter redhead, craning their heads my way over the backrest. Both wore small, plain domino masks, and on the table in front of them rested two unfamiliar controllers. Some sort of racing game was paused on the absurdly big screen mounted on the wall. The redhead was the first to wave, apparently to Minuteman, as he took his place a few feet to my left. I could make out their curious expressions despite the small masks.  
  
"Clockblocker, Kid Win, I'd like to introduce you to the new member of the team you were briefed on. Their temporary code name is ‘Fax’, like the machine.”  
  
I gave a small wave, looking at them curiously. Kid Win greeted me with a friendly grin; Clockblocker waved back. Both climbed to their feet and made their way over to me, exchanging polite greetings. Handshakes.  
  
There was a pause after Clockblocker released my hand. She must have picked up on my mingled relief and disappointment, because she chuckled good-naturedly. "I don't know what the others have warned you about me—lies and calumnies, no doubt—but I wouldn't surprise someone with my power on their first day. Sets the wrong kind of expectations, you know?"  
  
I did grin a bit at that. "And here I was half-hoping you'd be named Timesnatch."  
  
I heard a sharp intake of breath from Minuteman and a wince from Kid Win. Clockblocker just stared at me, mouth agape in an 'o' of surprise. Then words rushed out, "Oh my _god_ why didn't I think of that!?"  
  
_"Oh no,"_ Kid Win muttered, and Minuteman's disapproval was almost palpable.  
  
"You! Me! We need to talk," Clockblocker exclaimed, grinning broadly. "I think this is the start of something beautiful."  
  
There was an eye-watering distortion around the corner, and a tiny little brown-haired boy warped into the common area. The first person I'd met in Brockton Bay so far I didn't have to crane my neck _up_ to see eye to eye with, and somehow even more adorable than I'd ever imagined Vista to be. "What's going on?"  
  
I covered my mouth with both hands to contain an entirely unbidden _squee_ from slipping out. I might not have been as successful as I'd hoped, because I saw his face fall briefly behind his domino mask before hardening into a forced smile. He held out a hand. "Panorama. Nice to meet you, miss...?"  
  
My eye twitched. Minuteman stepped in quickly, "Fax, for now. The newest member of the team. Just giving them the tour."  
  
"You're joining the Wards?"  
  
It was my turn for my face to fall. Kid Win made a slight choking sound and Clockblocker openly laughed. I glared at Panorama, unsure if that was the innocent question his attitude implied, or revenge for my faint high-pitched squeal at seeing him for the first time. If the latter... touché, little man. Touché.  
  
"The Protectorate," Minuteman chimed in hastily. "They are twenty-nine. It was in the briefing you _should_ have read, Pan."  
  
"Oh! I'm sorry." Mmhmm. My death glare continued unabated. "Um... Lady is on her way back from patrol with Shadow Stalker. You should be able to meet them soon."  
  
He made his excuses and warped away before he burst into flame from the force of my gaze alone.  
  
Drawn by the commotion, Aegis floated over from the console, decked out in her red costume. She'd left her helmet by the computers, instead wearing a domino mask like the others. Firm handshake, polite greeting. We made small talk, nothing memorable.  
  
Lady looked like a cross between a science-fiction knight and a princess rolled into one. Her hair wasn't even half as long as Armsmaster’s, but it still flowed from beneath the back of her helmet in gentle curling waves. She was—as expected—formal, polite and diffident.  
  
Shadow Stalker, on the other hand, was distant, curt, and eyeballed me with something resembling disappointment; also as expected. At least he gave no open signs of recognizing me, and Lady didn't seem to notice anything weird about his reaction. He clearly didn't want to force a conversation neither one of us wanted to have, and left quickly after our introduction.  
  
"Huh. I think he likes you," Clockblocker quipped, grinning.  
  
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"  
  
"Yeah, he actually acknowledged your existence."  
  
I grinned wryly. "Well, I'm just that good with kids."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the point where I realized just how skewed gender ratios are in Protectorate and Wards. Aren't women supposed to trigger more often than men?
> 
> Also, really wanted to add a "what's a fax machine?" joke in there (thanks Kittius) but couldn't figure out how to fit it into the flow.


	3. Day 4.3 : Mentorship

**Mentorship**  
  
I wasn’t good with kids.  
  
I focused on the cluster of cables and bulbs, color-coded cylinders that might have been... capacitors? Resistors? I turned it over and over in my hands, trying not to notice the chipped nail polish, drawing connections with my eyes between different components. That glowy bit seemed like an energy source, the plate looked like a kind of projector... the whole thing looked like a Raspberry Pi fell into a blender with a game of Mousetrap.  
  
"I have no idea what this is."  
  
Kid Win's face, so intently watching mine, fell almost comically. Hopeful to heartbroken in an instant.  
  
Did I mention I wasn’t good with kids?  
  
I winced, glanced at Armsmaster who was staring intently into space not quite our way. Probably working on things in her visor, judging by the way the tips of her fingers twitched now and then. No help from that quarter.  
  
"...But that's probably because it's only my second day as a Tinker. The Think Tank seems to think my power grows over time, but starts slow. I'm—I'm sure it's not your fault." I handed the whatsit back over her way, and she turned it over in her own hands, not meeting my eyes, forlorn as a child who just saw their balloon vanish into the sunset. I patted her gently on the shoulder, but she didn't seem to notice.  
  
"No. It's not you. I'm just a crap Tinker."  
  
I floundered, scrabbling at words to try to keep her from sinking deeper into despair. "No, no, I swear, it's just... you know how you can look at something and immediately figure out what it is, how it goes together, how much titanium-plutonium alloy you need to make the thing go 'blorp'?" She chuckled a little. I counted that as a success. "Well, I don't. I've got, like, a tenth or your powers. Even combined, that's less than most Tinkers get right off the bat, right?" I took a deep breath, bracing myself. "Why don't you, uh, explain to me what this thing is supposed to be? Maybe it'll... spark something?"  
  
She looked up at me, indecisive. Her light brown hair was short, messy in a way I wasn’t sure was accidental or stylish, and her blue eyes were glimmering faintly with suppressed tears. Her jeans were lightly scarred with small pockmarks and burns, and a T-shirt with a video game reference I didn't get hung a bit loose on her, making her seem even more like the kid she was. In the end, though, the in-built desire for Tinkers to talk about their work won over.  
  
Hesitantly at first, then gaining steam when I didn't immediately glaze over, she pointed out different components. Oh hey, those _were_ resistors. Armsmaster was definitely either dozing off while standing or Tinkering in her visor, because she didn't so much as shift her weight.  
  
The crazy part was, as Kid Win pointed out how things went together, I could _almost_ see it. Almost visualize the energy being routed around the different components; how it could be shunted, stored, recycled, redirected. But what I couldn't figure out was...  
  
"What does it _do_ , though?"  
  
Her expression, briefly lively and engaged, grew dark once more. "I'm... not quite sure. I thought it could be a sort of shock absorber, but I think it's missing some pieces. I was hoping... you could... help me figure it out?"  
  
Goddamnit. I was too tired, too out of it, and far too anxious to be subject to those kind of puppy eyes this early in the morning.  
  
Still, I leaned back and took a thoughtful posture, one hand stroking my chin. A faint sense of loss, but I bulled through, as it _was_ an interesting engineering question. “Well, what it’s missing depends on what you _want_ it to do. Is it a weapon? A shield?”  
  
She frowned, looking intently at the thingamabob. “I mean, I suppose it could go a couple different directions…”  
  
Her eyes went glassy and distant for a moment, lost in thought. I gave her time.  
  
“What if,” she began, then swallowed, as if her mouth had suddenly gone dry. “What if it did different things depending on the framework around it?”  
  
I nodded, looking deliberately thoughtful. Spoke little, let her talk more, think things through. Granted, I was cheating, but I still wanted the revelation to come from _her_ , to build up her confidence a bit. I couldn’t take any more puppy eyes.  
  
It didn’t happen right away. Inspiration did not strike down like a bolt of lightning. But I could see her making progress, and she left visibly more excited than when she came in. When I looked up at Armsmaster to see her give me a small nod, I was pretty sure she was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kid Win is adorable.


	4. Day 5.4 : Boob Plat

**Boob Plate**  
  
"Image thought it'd increase my demographic appeal."  
  
"To teenage boys, I presume."  
  
"A few days after the design was debuted it was 'accidentally' destroyed in a conflict with Hookwolf." Must’ve been a popular video. Because of course someone had to have recorded it somehow.  
  
"And that was the end of the[ boob plate](http://www.denofgeek.com/us/movies/power-rangers/255189/power-rangers-boob-armor-and-impractical-costumes)?"  
  
Armsmaster just grunted. She had a wide variety of grunts, one for every occasion. This one was the 'irritated (but not at you) confirmation' grunt. Her absurdly long hair was wrapped up in a tight bun that must have weighed a full five pounds, and I noticed she rarely moved her head more than necessary. Judging from the dense back and shoulder muscles barely restrained by the sports bra she Tinkered in, however, she was more than capable of bearing the strain.  
  
“I imagine you get the dumbest questions, too.”  
  
She immediately grasped what I was asking, and gave a slight snort, careful not to disturb any of the delicate components she was working on. “You weren't the first to ask how I dealt with my 'feminine issues’ in power armor.”  
  
“Jackasses,” I offered in sympathy.  
  
“If I get another journalist asking me if I'm concerned my career as Protectorate leader will keep me from spawning 'Armsnuggets’ I might actually scream on camera.”  
  
I stifled a chortle. Poorly. “Armsnuggets?”  
  
Another grunt. This one was: ‘I never said that and will deny if asked’.   
  
I hunched over my own satellite workstation, fidgeting with connectors, tiny pliers and screwdrivers arrayed beside me. If I arranged the components _just so_ , it would act as a kinetic receiver, absorbing impact. Flipped, it would apply that stored energy to anything attached to the conduction plate. Assault was good for something at least, and Kid Win laid a solid groundwork despite her doubts. I held the assembled pieces, not yet housed and spilling loose wires, up for Armsmaster to inspect. She took a quick glance and turned back to her work.  
  
"Tolerances?"  
  
"If I did my calculations right—" I spun the tablet screen over to face her "—more than enough for small caliber gunfire." I didn't add that the resulting projected force could launch a police baton just under half the speed of sound. It kind of went without saying.  
  
She took the figures in quickly, then grunted and returned to her work once again. That one was 'you didn't fuck up too badly, probably'. I was growing familiar with that one. It was an improvement over 'you added instead of subtracted and this will explode at the slightest provocation', more colloquially known as the 'Kid Win Special', poor girl. At least she was getting better.  
  
I still had a few more charges to go before I got a full double-Tinker package, I estimated. I wasn't entirely sure if the constant miscalculations until then were the fault of my own ADD, Kid Win's power including her goddamned dyscalculia, or my still-incomplete Tinker powers not being up to the task of the bullshit space whale magic Tinkertech required to function. Regardless, I needed to do something about my squishiness. Still no Brutes among my powersets. Fucking _bureaucrats_. Force multiplier, my ass.  
  
At least I didn't have to sleep anymore. Thanks, Minuteman. Armsmaster was blatantly jealous, notable in how she never addressed that part of my powers even in passing.  
  
Still, another few weeks and I'd say 'fuck it' to the carefully curated Protectorate power-copying schedule and take the powers _I_ wanted. The powers I _needed_.  
  
My hand drifted, unbidden, to the blade at my waist. There was no blood on it. Metal gleamed faintly in the glare of workshop ring-lights on mounted magnifying glasses.  
  
_A desperate thrust, a scream, a vicious twist-_  
  
I shuddered, too-small fingers tightening around the leather grip.  
  
Armsmaster didn't notice. Or pretended she hadn't. She was good like that.  
  
I took a few careful, deep breaths, gathered my focus and returned to my work. I was in control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double standards, ho!


	5. Day 5.5 : Fire Me

**Fire Me**  
  
"No."  
  
Director Piggot paused mid-sentence and looked at me as though I'd sprouted a second head. "No?"  
  
"I'm not doing it. I'm too busy."  
  
"These events are part of your contract."  
  
"Fire me."  
  
His lips tensed, sending tiny ripples through his double chin, veins in his forehead starting to become pronounced. He visibly calmed himself, then leaned forward, hands steepled on his cheap particle-board desk. "I wasn't aware you were so dissatisfied with your time in the Protectorate." When I said nothing, staring dully at him, he continued, "In fact I thought your needs were being quite generously met. Training, room and board, generous compensation, your own Tinker budget, access to powers, a team to back you up..."  
  
He trailed off, irritation evident in the way his ill-fitting suit crinkled with the strain of his tense posture. I started to feel a bit of remorse, then remembered what he had just ordered me to do.  
  
"I hate children.” With few exceptions. “I hate high schools. I hate public speaking. And my costume is—"  
  
"—On its tenth revision with Image, and reaching a compromise I _thought_ you'd expressed your satisfaction with."  
  
My right eye twitched, and I slipped a cigarette out of my shirt pocket and tucked it between my lips. I didn't light it in Emmett's office—even my disregard for authority didn't stretch that far yet—but the temptation was real. Seeing the corners of his lips twitch deeper into a frown, the words spilled out, acerbic and biting, despite my best efforts at remaining tight-lipped. "Skin-tight, no armor, no weapons, they vetoed goddamned _pockets_ —"  
  
"We've had this discussion before." Discussion was a very polite way of putting it. "You had agreed to make certain concessions in exchange for—"  
  
"I have. No. Brute. Powers."  
  
He closed his eyes, rubbed his right temple with chubby fingers. Through gritted teeth, he hissed, "I have no input over the powers the Think Tank had proposed to test your abilities with. Compliance with that plan was _also_ in your contract."  
  
"I signed that thing concussed and—"  
  
—and still reeling from nearly being _killed_ , or _worse_ , I didn't say. The words caught in my throat, and the room felt uncomfortably warm. I could feel icy sweat dripping down the nape of my neck, brick under my skinned knees, the sound of muffled traffic so close but nobody could hear-  
  
"If you wish to renegotiate the terms of your contract," the Director said, voice strained with poorly concealed frustration, "that is something we can discuss, in due time. But simply refusing to do your duties reflects extremely poorly on you. Your lack of cooperation will be noted in your file and may affect—"  
  
I turned on my heel and left. I had to get out.  
  
He didn't suffer the indignity of trying to call me back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Piggot.


	6. Day 5.6 : Shadow Stalking

**Shadow Stalking**  
  
I caught Shadow Stalker as he was leaving, a heavy duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He didn't say anything as I fell into step beside him, heading towards the parking garage exit. I might have imagined the faint smile on his face.  
  
I was being stupid. I didn't even have my temporary costume, any of the gear I'd built.  
  
The lanky teen kept mercifully quiet as we made our way through the streets of Brockton Fucking Bay, an overcast sky looming overhead, threatening rain. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen the sun.  
  
It took an hour to reach the stash. He changed quickly. I grabbed a spare bandanna and wrapped it around the bottom half of my face, the dark cloth blending with the plain black hoodie and too-tight jeans. At least I was wearing comfortable shoes this time.  
  
Without even a whisper, he leapt to the rooftops, going slow enough I could follow him through the alleyways below on foot. With no goddamned Mover powers, or even night-vision goggles to cut the steadily deepening gloom as the unseen sun dipped below the cluttered horizon. Every block or so he tapped one of his crossbows against brick, or roofing tile, or an air vent, letting me know which way to follow.  
  
It didn't take long to find the group of ABB gang members, lounging in the dark alleyway behind a used electronics shop. Their silhouettes were stark against the single security light covering the loading dock. Some sat against the concrete lip, others leaned against crates and a pallet of collapsed cardboard boxes wrapped in tight bundles. I could still see the colors though, still hear whispers of a language I couldn't understand. Vietnamese, I thought. Of course it would be.  
  
They passed a joint between them and chatted quietly, with long comfortable pauses between sentences. They didn't look like they were on watch, much less patrolling. Their colors might have just been incidental, too deep in their territory to be a show of force. Hell, some of them still looked to be in their late teens.  
  
I had a moment of doubt.  
  
Ultimately I turned to leave, seeking greener pastures. Better targets.  
  
My foot slipped on a torn-open trash bag against the wall of the alley, and I must have cursed, one hand slapping the rough brick wall of the alleyway for support.  
  
The gangsters froze. One of them called out in Vietnamese, hesitant, questioning.  
  
_"Got you, cunt."_  
  
I couldn't move. Couldn't make a sound. My breaths were suddenly coming in short gasps, not enough oxygen in the salty, fish-smelling air this close to the docks.  
  
I heard a faint rustling up above me.  
  
Behind me, the gangsters gathered their courage. Glancing back, one had drawn a knife, walking slowly towards me in the dark. He called out. I don't remember what he said.  
  
Another was reaching for a _fucking gun_ , tucked in his belt like a suicidal idiot.  
  
I'm not sure exactly what happened next.  
  
I do remember violence. I remember breaking a kneecap with a baseball bat, the pitiful screech of pain coming from the youngest boy in the group, dropping like a sack of potatoes. I remember knives, and blood, and screaming. I'm not sure from whom.  
  
I remember a deafening roar, a moment of agonizing pain. I lost track of time, of myself.  
  
The first clear moment came when a strong pair of arms slipped over my shoulders. I struggled until I recognized the black hooded cloak, felt the gloved hands helping me up.  
  
Drawn by some impulse, I looked down at my... my chest.  
  
My hoodie had a hole. Just above my heart, the edges wispy, gap slowly closing.  
  
When I could breathe again, I rasped a sound not unlike laughter. Beside me I heard soft chuckling, leading me away from the alleyway.  
  
"You're one fucking crazy bitch," Shadow Stalker murmured, not disapprovingly. He led me away from the encounter, turning through twisting alleyways. I didn't look behind us. I held a gun tightly in one hand.  
  
I just laughed again in response, tears streaming down my cheeks, stumbling in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris has the healthiest coping mechanisms.


	7. Day 6.7 : Conversations Through Glass

**Conversations Through Glass**  
  
I expected to feel caged.  
  
"I see white acoustic tiles. Pale blue bedsheets. Grey-blue safety carpet."  
  
Instead I felt... well, like I was on a business trip. None of the day-to-day expectations. Nowhere to be, no work to do, no meetings to attend. And I could chain-smoke and nobody got mad at me.  
  
"I smell fabric softener. Legend-brand deodorant. Camel Reds."  
  
I did feel bored. A bit restless.  
  
"I can feel the plastic armrest. Thick hospital socks with the no-slip pads on the bottom. Um. The cotton of my... my shirt."  
  
And a little cold. A tit bit nipply, as it were.  
  
Which led to distractions from the exercise the PRT-mandated therapist was guiding me through. Bless her heart, she did her best, even though she was clearly unprepared for my... _unique_ set of issues. Not that it showed.  
  
"Good. Do you feel a little more grounded? We're not looking for one hundred percent here. Just for improvement. All progress is progress, even if you're retreading ground."  
  
I supposed you got used to the crazy when your client base were all alien-touched nutjobs. Present company included. Maybe.  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
My coping mechanisms for stress, in general, had always been distractions. Getting my mind off things. Solving other people’s problems. Deep-diving into a new challenge, or story, or game. Displacing myself to center myself.  
  
Tinkering helped. Notebooks packed with tightly-scrawled diagrams and blueprints until my wrists were sore, fingers cramped. I already missed the workshop. Smells of machine oil, ozone, the tang of hot metal like blood in my nose. _Only 24 hours_ , I told myself again.  
  
What didn't help were the ever-present, inescapable reminders of what happened to me. They refused to give me space. Mocked me from the ends of my too-slender wrists, poked at me every time a room seemed too big, too tall. Every time I looked at myself in a mirror.  
  
I avoided mirrors.  
  
"Repeat as needed when you're noticing signs of an oncoming stress episode. It works well in combination with the breathing exercises."  
  
I tried to read her face on the small monitor in the room. She seemed younger than I'd expected. Didn't smile too much, never showed her teeth, always bore a look of patient acceptance. Maybe it seemed too close to resignation for me. I stood up and paced around the small, bare room, taking two steps each way before turning, repeating. That made it worse. My stride was too short. My feet, when I looked down, were petite, and looking down only reminded me of what _else_ had changed.  
  
I mean, I wasn’t saying I’d never peed while sitting down before, but it was always by choice. Or because I was too drunk, or hungover, to aim. I supposed standing was still an _option_. It would just require practice. And certain clothing choices.  
  
"You seem worked up. Want to talk about what's on your mind?"  
  
"I'm... adjusting."  
  
"A side effect of your power?"  
  
Not exactly.  
  
"No. I don't really get that kind of feedback. You can tell your minders I'm not suffering any ill effects from isolation from other capes.” That was the point of the exercise, after all. Voluntary withdrawal from capes. To see what my power did. I had to admit, I was curious myself. Would my powers fade? Increase? Nobody knew. And it got me out of status meetings.  
  
She frowned slightly, creases in her brow looking out of place. Like she didn't do it often. "Chris, everything discussed here is subject to doctor-patient confidentiality. I'm not reporting any details of our discussion. I'm just here to help give you the tools you need to-"  
  
"I get it. It's not my first rodeo."  
  
I didn't know why I snapped at her. She stopped talking, but didn't make an issue of it, smoothing over her expression.  
  
Maybe I was agitated.  
  
I bit at the edge of my fingernail, chipping the paint further. When I didn't speak, she picked up the conversation again.  
  
"What you're experiencing is normal."  
  
I stopped. Looked down at myself. Looked at the small video monitor, as if to say 'are you fucking joking?'. Nothing about this was normal.  
  
She persisted. "The circumstances are always different, yes, but the fact is you have survived a traumatic event. Your mind and body are dealing with the repercussions in understandable, natural ways. Protecting yourself. Developing coping strategies. Mood swings are normal."  
  
_Bitch_.  
  
"Intrusive thoughts are normal."  
  
Thoughts like—  
  
I shuddered, wrapped my too-small arms around my differently proportioned chest. Nightmares had probably been normal too. _God bless you, Minuteman_.  
  
She paused. When she spoke again, it was like reading from a handbook. Which, for all I knew, she was.  
  
"A mantra can help center you, help refocus your mind. It's trite, I know, but do me a favor and work with me on it. We can add it to your toolbox."  
  
In the end, together we wrote a nice little collection of reassuring bullshit to feed my anxiety, my fear, my dysmorphia.  
  
"This is who I am now." For better or for worse, until this roller coaster ride was done. "I am in control of myself and my body."  
  
Lies. All lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A therapist? In a Wormfic? THAT ISN'T YAMADA!?


	8. Day 7.8 : Cookies

**Cookies**  
  
"Hey, are you ok—"  
  
Velocity froze as she entered the kitchen, looking up—ha!—at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion.  
  
Granted, that was probably because I was clinging to the cabinets like a spider monkey, one arm buried in the back of the uppermost shelf, contorted uncomfortably to both reach and keep myself from falling.  
  
I paused, one fingertip just brushing the edge of the crinkled paper bag stashed behind decaf coffee and stacks of paper napkins, to fix her with a look that screamed 'you want to make something of this?'.  
  
She paused, opened her mouth, closed it, then apparently decided on diplomacy.  
  
"I, ah, heard noises." Well, I wasn't exactly stealthy with my cursing. "Do you... need some help?"  
  
I considered for a moment, then nodded. "Catch."  
  
She blurred slightly as I threw down one tin of dried ground beans, then another, then caught and balanced a third precariously on top, making vaguely distorted sounds of surprise. Kinda dopplered. I paid her no mind; the obstacles were removed, and the precious treasure was mine!  
  
With my bounty clutched tightly in one hand, I used my other hand and both bare feet to clamber down on top of the counter, plopping down on my ass with a soft _thump_. With a triumphant grin, I tore off the top of the bag with my teeth and pulled out my prize. Buttery, crispy chocolate chip cookies. I don't know why it was so important to eat them once I'd heard there was a bag there, but... uh. Blame my period. I didn't know.  
  
I only vaguely noticed Velocity setting down the coffee cans as I devoured an entire sleeve of cookies in a horrific crumb-laden mess. _That_ I couldn't blame on my circumstances; they were just really good, and really crumbly. And maybe I was a messy eater.  
  
"Feel... better?"  
  
I glanced up, brushing my hair out of my face and a few crumbs off my cheeks at the same time. "Marginally.” A polite smile. “Thanks for your help."  
  
"Sure." She smiled back, leaning back against the counter beside me. I stiffened, then relented, offering her the bag. She took one gratefully, and...  
  
Oh, wow. I'd never seen a speedster eat in a hurry before. That cookie practically _exploded_.  
  
She met my crumb-laden expression with her own, practically beaming, and I felt my mood lighten for reasons besides the sugar rushing through my system and the triumph of hunting down my quarry.  
  
Although.  
  
"So... why _were_ the cookies buried up there anyway? I thought Trooper Gable was pulling my leg."  
  
"Oh, it's to keep them out of reach of the Wards."  
  
I blinked, then screwed my eyes shut in disbelief and frustration. "The Wards. Who can fly, bend space, or just _reach_ them. _Without_ using a stepladder."  
  
She looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "Not _my_ idea." Another cookie vaporized itself almost faster than I could see. God, that was almost a superpower unto itself. I may have been staring in awe, because she gave me another, slightly embarrassed smile, cookie shrapnel almost to her eyebrows.  
  
“Actually,” she began, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, so as to say it and not spray it, “Ellen and I were wondering if you wanted to go out with us tonight.” I could hear a deliberate level of casualness to her voice that raised my hackles. I mean, I was all about the overtures of friendship, but this seemed… forced.  
  
I tried to match her level of lightness of tone. “Completely without prompting, I’m sure.”  
  
The hurt in her eyes made me wonder if I was being paranoid. Seeing plots where there were none.  
  
“You almost never leave the Rig. Just thought you might want to get out a little. See the town. Spend timewithsomeofyournewcoworkers.” Oh wow, I’d never heard a speedster accelerate mid-sentence before. It was kind of adorable. She paused, slowed her breathing, gave me a hopeful smile.  
  
I winced. I _had_ been spending almost all of the last few days either at the Rig or PRTHQ, eating all my meals in the cafeteria, sleeping as little as possible.  
  
As if to just get away from that thought, I nodded without thinking. “Sure,” I answered with forced cheer. “I’d love to.”  
  
I mean, I would be going out with two capes. What’s the worst that could— _nope_.  
  
How bad could it— _hell no_.  
  
Let’s just hope nobody dies? _Yeah_. Let’s go with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How would you hide cookies from superpowered children?


	9. Day 7.9 : Girl’s Night

**Girl’s Night**  
  
Apparently this was the kind of event I was supposed to dress up for. And wear makeup for. And do my hair for. In my defense, I at least showered, and put on clean (only slightly rumpled) clothes.  
  
But when I met Ellen and Robin at the latter’s apartment—after a slightly anxiety-inducing cab ride where the driver kept staring at me in the rear-view mirror, despite my literally telling him to ‘fucking stop that shit’—they were rather disapproving of my complete lack of preparation.  
  
“Have you literally _never_ gone out on the town before?” Ellen said dryly, one lone eyebrow arched imperiously.  
  
I matched her tone for dryness and doubled down. “As a woman? _No_.”  
  
Her and Robin exchanged glances. The latter at least had the decency to look abashed. “Sorry,” she said, “I should have been more considerate. We could… keep it casual?” At my look of barely-suppressed relief, she added “Maybe even just have the night in, drink, order Chinese, talk?”  
  
_Bless your heart, Velocity._ I was halfway out of my shoes already.  
  
“Fuck that,” Ellen countered. “First time for everything. Let’s do this _right_.”  
  
_Go fuck yourself, Assault._ _I have the technology._  
  
She pressed on regardless of my dagger-stare. “Do you know how often I get a work-approved night off that isn’t automatically claimed as a date night? I _love_ my husband, I really do, but sometimes a girl’s gotta go out and _party_. Let your hair down, flirt meaninglessly with strangers, deface public property, evade the police. Live our best lives!”  
  
In the end both Robin and I bowed under peer pressure from the one-person anti-D.A.R.E. campaign. Wheedling arguments of how to do my hair, what nail polishes would go best with the color, what dress we could pull out from the emergency collection Robin’s high school cousin stashed at her place for when she needed to get away from her parents.  
  
Two hours later we were decked to the nines and piled in a taxi headed downtown.  
  
“A few drinks, a little dancing. It’ll be a night to remember!”  
  
“Let’s make sure everyone actually _remembers_ it, Ellen.”  
  
“Is there a subtle way to pick a wedgie in a dress? Because _goddamn_ , y’all.”  
  
The answer was, apparently, from beneath the bottom of the dress. And they found a discreet place for me to do so without question, which was actually pretty touching.  
  
Robin wore her short brown hair styled artfully with bobby pins, highlighting her long neck and high cheekbones lightly touched by makeup. She had legs for days, with thighs that could crush watermelons. I was pretty sure her calves were secretly cantaloupes strapped to the backs of her legs, and she had the easy poise of a dancer. Little black dress, traditional. She also had a good ten inches on me, which still took some getting used to.  
  
Ellen had her dark curls in an elaborate up-do, something called “smokey” eyes, a red dress just this side of scandalous, and a cherubic, round face that made her look a decade younger than she was. Only six inches taller than me, she made up for it with her overbearing exuberance and a constant stream of obscene, improbable, but admittedly hilarious stories. She steamrolled over any hesitation, any doubt, any anxiety with sheer force of personality. I still didn’t _like_ her, but I’d be damned if she didn’t make it hard to hang on to that feeling of distaste.  
  
She made it her personal mission to keep me out of my own head, shoot down any attempt to talk about comfortable topics like work or Tinkering, keep my glass full, and didn’t bat an eyelash when all the stories she dragged out of me were clearly from a male perspective. She also _violently_ rebuked any unwanted romantic overtures directed towards me, which was pretty much all of it.  
  
“Ellen. Help.”  
  
“Yeah no son, go pick on someone your own size.”  
  
Robin was pleasant, if far quieter, and she took it upon herself to herd cats, pulling in Ellen when she threatened to drag us down to shadier parts of the city or tried to engage strangers in drinking contests. I think at one point she had to stop Ellen from—almost successfully—starting a conga line outside the women’s restroom at a particularly divey bar.  
  
I wore a dark blue slip of a dress that hugged my figure slightly too much to be comfortable, but which thankfully covered me to the neck, with a flowy cardigan a size too large that kept the chill off. All the eye makeup I could let Robin apply on me without poking an eye out from my twitching. And flats, thank fuck. Sure, I could use the height, but I was utterly unprepared for walking in heels, especially over curbs and occasionally through hedges as Ellen dragged us through another shortcut.  
  
I hadn’t _planned_ on getting drunk, but I _also_ hadn’t planned on the hundred pound difference between my normal body mass and what I currently had. Bless Robin’s sweet hummingbird heart for holding my hair back as I worshipped at the porcelain altar halfway through the night.  
  
“Better out than in, little buddy.”  
  
“ _Hork_.”  
  
“Room for more drinks!”  
  
“Ellen, _no_.”  
  
\---  
  
Morning found me sprawled on Robin’s fold-out couch, twisted in a blanket and desperately clutching a throw pillow with all my might. Surprisingly enough, not hungover, just ravenously hungry. Robin found me cooking a gigantic omelette when she woke up to make coffee. Ellen we found a short while later curled up around the toilet, which gave me a small amount of satisfaction… right up until she perked up at the smell of fresh brew and popped up fresh as a daisy.  
  
“So, that went pretty well, I think.” Robin looked comfortable as fuck in a loose shirt and flowy pajama pants.  
  
“Could’ve been worse,” I admitted around a mouthful of eggs, wearing one of her shirts draped over me almost to my knees. Despite myself, I had to admit, that was actually a surprisingly fun night. Robin looked like she wanted to ask about my tattoos, the full sleeves bare past my elbows, but instead just let me eat in peace.  
  
And then Ellen had to ruin everything. “Can’t wait to show the pictures around the office!”  
  
She was indignant when I bricked her phone, but I felt it was entirely justified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellen's that friend everyone needs when they're feeling down but still hates the rest of the time anyway. Insufferable but likeable at the same time.


	10. Day 8.10 : Science Bros

**Science Bros**  
  
This was my first ‘big’ project.  
  
“There’s some stiffness in the left knee. My left. And some kind of resistance when I start or stop moving, like I have too much inertia. Does that make sense?”  
  
A little bit of maintenance, no big deal. Check this off the list and I could start on my own gear. Every Tinker’s dream.  
  
I popped off the casing from her thigh armor—nope. Shin guard? There we go. Christ, Armsmaster’s work was _tight_. Cables guided between components with just enough room to flex, providing both thermal and electrical insulation while also cushioning movement. The casing was showing cracks. Too much moisture, probably; easy enough to fix. I think I even knew where in Colleen’s endless, unlabeled drawers I could find matching cable wraps. One problem down.  
  
Shit, she was talking. “I’m sorry, what?”  
  
Lady smiled indulgently, helmet off, showing no signs of frustration for having to repeat herself. “Seems like you’ve figured out the first thing. I think the second thing might be in the back panel, below my shoulder blades. Feels like the push comes from there.”  
  
Dutifully, I scooted over on my wheely seat until I was facing the appropriate panel behind her. She lifted her hair to the side, and after only a little scrabbling with my chipped nails the guts of the armor were laid bare. For a panic-inducing moment, I could only stare glassy-eyed at the intricate cityscape of processor towers, neatly bundled highways of cables in tight arcs, a thousand twinkling lights like street lamps seen from high above.  
  
Then things started to snap into place. Those were for power and data, those handled communications and interstitial kinesthetics, those orbs were the gyro-balancers that helped keep several hundred pounds of power armor from overcompensating in its movement and throwing its user to the ground…  
  
And they were off balance. Just a tiny bit. Something in the faint whirring sounds the two spheres generated from the spinning disks within must have tipped me off. Or Space Whale Magic, whatever. Either way, they were out of sync. Probably from the strain from the dodgy knee causing an imbalance in the gyroscopes which were only supposed to be used for short burst inertial adjustments, not constantly struggling to compensate for uneven weight distribution. Science!  
  
“Found it, then?”  
  
I blinked, surprised. Oh, right, Lady was looking back over her shoulder at me, faintly amused expression framed in a halo of dirty blonde curls still tucked over her shoulder. It took me a moment to remember how to speak to non-Tinkers.  
  
“Ah, yeah. Just need to adjust the timing belt, more or less. And give it an oil change.” Gold-thread-infused ferrofluid, to be precise, but I’d been a Tinker long enough to keep the details to myself. Most of the time.  
  
“I really appreciate you helping take over maintenance. I’m sure Armsmaster appreciates having the time back, too.”  
  
Whatever it took. Plus, someday I’d have my own power armor; the practice would help.  
  
I started reaching for the tools—should only take thirty minutes to extract the balancers, depending on parts—before I heard someone clear their throat behind me.  
  
I spun, startled, taser already in hand. Armsmaster didn’t flinch.  
  
Sheepishly, I lowered it, dismissing the everweapon to my belt once more.  
  
“Tell me what you would do,” she said without preamble, thankfully glossing over my reaction.  
  
I gave a little cough—lump in my throat—and tried to give a condensed version from the steadily growing laundry list of Tinkertech instructions in my head. The parts I’d replace, steps I’d take, materials I’d need. She punched something in her armor’s keyboard as I spoke, nodding her assent, I assumed.  
  
When I was at a stopping point, she looked down at her display, then up at me. Christ, her eyebrows were _immaculate_. “The total cost of all of those repairs, as listed, is one hundred, forty-two thousand and sixty dollars. For materials alone.”  
  
I gaped. “Um.”  
  
Looking back at the armor—and Lady, giving me a tiny shrug—there was no way the Protectorate could afford to keep second-hand Tinkertech maintained like that. That was basically normal wear and tear!  
  
Armsmaster lowered her arms, tucking them behind her back in something of an orator’s pose. “Part of Tinkering is working within limits. Budgets. You have two thousand dollars. How would you get Lady’s armor in working condition?”  
  
Gears ground in my head. “But… that’s not even enough for the ferrofluid!”  
  
She bore a patient, understanding expression, one I’d seen on school teachers and stage electricians. “Find a substitute. If you can’t, find ways of making the most of what you’re given. Multiple functions for the same material. Balance needs off of each other. Be efficient.”  
  
I opened my mouth to protest, then an idea struck me. “You want me to minmax.”  
  
Armsmaster, you dirty _munchkin_.  
  
She smiled.  
  
I smiled back.  
  
Lady asked if she could take off the armor. Armsmaster and I both told her no.  
  
She sighed.  
  
We got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small moments.


	11. Day 9.11 : Pen Pals

**Pen Pals**  
  
The lab was quiet, but not too quiet.  
  
It was the kind of quiet one gets used to in an apartment where the plumbing was a bit loud and the refrigerator was not exceptionally far from the bedroom. The low hum of electronics, the dull roar of fans and vents, faint beeps and bleeps from miscellaneous doohickeys almost sounding like distant crickets. I could just pretend I was hearing the sound of rain in the windowless room. Hell, maybe it _was_ raining. I hadn’t gone outside in a while.  
  
I was waiting for paint to dry. It was a lot more technical than that, and it was to paint what jet fuel was to bacon grease, but the waiting was the same. And while I waited, I just sat and enjoyed the not-silence. The sense of purposeful work being done. A thing for every place and a… however that saying went.  
  
And then there was a new beep. A chime, really. I craned my head around from where I was sitting on the floor until I saw a monitor light up, filled shortly after by a man’s face. I didn’t have to look at the carefully average features to know who it was. Who else would video chat Armsmaster’s lab?  
  
“Hey Dragon. Armsmaster’s sleeping.” Yeah, no big deal, just chatting casually with the best Tinker in the world and one of the few genuinely good people in the whole damn story. Well. Before I met them, anyway. Armsmaster was much cooler in person than in fanon.  
  
“Actually, I wanted to see how your work was coming along. Do you have a minute?”  
  
Speaking of canon, it never quite described how pleasant Dragon’s slightly Newfie accent sounded, ever-so-vaguely distorted by what I assumed was deliberate post-processing. His voice wasn’t saccharine sweet, wasn’t buttery smooth, wasn’t dry or bland. It was just _nice_ , with a faint musicality to it.  
  
Wait. He wanted to talk to _me_?  
  
“Um. It’s going— yeah, sure, I can talk. Yes.”  
  
I could just see his smile from the angle on his screen.  
  
We talked for a little while. He asked what it was like working with Armsmaster.  
  
“Much smoother than I thought it’d be. Do Tinkers normally collaborate that well?” Truth be told, I thought she’d be more possessive of her tech, more dominant about her methods and decisions. She had plenty more experience, of course, but she always listened to my ideas. Even if just to tell me why it was too expensive, or why my suggested changes might make it explode. Even if it was just the coffee maker.  
  
“I think it depends on their specialties, and personalities. Armsmaster and I collaborate quite well.”  
  
_Heh. Yeah you do._  
  
“Actually, I think you’ve been a good influence on her.” Wait, what? “While I admit she’s consulted me less on her projects since you’ve joined the team, I find she’s a bit more... inventive, when she does. More willing to take risks. Perhaps your overlapping areas of focus are giving her new ideas.”  
  
Oh man, I _had_ been taking up a lot of her time, hadn’t I. “Shit, I’m sorry Dragon. I didn’t mean to hog Armsmaster.” I smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure she still loves you.”  
  
He blinked. Wow, that simulation was _detailed_. I could just see him faintly blush. He even stammered a little!  
  
“I—I don’t...” He took an artificial breath. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with Assault.”  
  
I let him have his out. “Any time is too much time with Assault.”  
  
The conversation meandered a little bit after that. Discussed some designs. He gave me a few suggestions on my tech harness prototypes, helped refine the concept a little. I wasn’t sure what inspiration struck me—something in his voice, maybe—but I interrupted my own explanation on the kinetic redirection suite by asking, “Hey, your voice is synthesized, right?”  
  
He nodded easily. “Not much, but yes. Most people don’t notice.” Uh huh, sure.  
  
“Can you help me with something? It’s not a priority or anything. It’s just… something that would make me feel better.”  
  
It took half an hour of back and forth, trial runs and feedback. I almost asked him to forget about it, but he insisted. Even helped me fab a small audio module to fit on my place-holder harness.  
  
Finally, I tested it out. Flipped the toggle, cleared my throat, and spoke.  
  
When I heard my own voice again, I couldn’t help but cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris has their shipping goggles on.


	12. Day 9.12 : Face Badger

**Face Badger**  
  
My voice was restored. There was only one thing left.  
  
Well, lots of things. But this one I’d been missing… ok, not the most, but a lot. And I was pretty sure Dragon wouldn’t have helped me simulate _that_. Maybe if Armsmaster had asked instead.  
  
But as soon as I got the 3D projector working, I had to show it off. Along with the voice module, of course.  
  
**“Eyyy, Robin!”**  
  
Her eyes bugged out at the unfamiliar voice. And Skitter was right, you ain’t seen a freakout til you’ve seen a speedster freakout. Damn near launched her into the bay.  
  
“What the _hell_ , Chris!?”  
  
I just smiled smugly at her and stroked my chin. **“Admit it, you’re impressed.”**  
  
God, I missed that bass rumble. Maybe I’d upped the volume more than normal.  
  
She didn’t look impressed. In fact, I’d dare say she seemed a bit horrified.  
  
“...What madness hath science wrought?”  
  
My smugness only increased. Somewhere, Tattletale was having an aneurysm.  
  
\---  
  
I made my rounds throughout the Rig. Assault was tickled pink, and made some crude jokes I’d already anticipated and had counters for. Armsmaster frowned slightly, then looked thoughtful. Pretty sure she was considering borrowing my design for her absurdly impractical hair. Battery seemed faintly traumatized. Triumph ran away like a coward, screaming about M/S protocols. Minuteman was happy for me, the sweetheart. And Dauntless just grinned and took it like a joke, the jerk.  
  
Then I hit the PRTHQ. Damn near got foamed in the lobby, but the look on the Director’s face was worth it.  
  
The Wards were just precious, though.  
  
Clockblocker begged, no, _demanded_ I make one for her too. There went twenty minutes in the lab.  
  
Then Panorama, after getting over the giggles, did the same. Another twenty minutes lost.  
  
But when Shadow Stalker came in from patrol with Lady, masks and helmets discarded, making a beeline for the break room, the two of them found us sitting on couches in a circle, collectively taking thinking poses and asking profound questions to one another, making appropriately thoughtful gestures before answering.  
  
They stopped at the threshold. Lady laughed, but Shadow Stalker just stared.  
  
Then, in unison:  
  
**“Eyyy”** / **“Hey Stephen”** / **“I’ve got a beard!”**  
  
I stroked my glorious face badger, hard-light projected onto my face, mirrored in appearance and voice by two costumed Wards. For bonus points, Clockblocker’s actually went _over_ her mask.  
  
Shadow Stalker froze. Then, looking at each of us in turn, declared his judgement.  
  
“Fucking dweebs.”  
  
It was one of the good days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three short ones today, because it made more sense to lump them together.
> 
> Chris is adjusting.


	13. Day 14.13 : Please Help

**Please Help**  
  
I wasn’t supposed to get powers today. Orders from on high.  
  
If the last time I abstained I gained the ability to accept or deny powers—along with a damnable itch around capes until I decided—then surely another day off would grant me something even more useful. Perhaps more ‘slots’ to hold powers in, since three—while powerful enough to make me a discount Eidolon with somewhat less versatility—still left room for improvement.  
  
It wasn’t a bad theory. I was particularly proud of the ‘slots’ hypothesis of my powerset, aided by the types of powers I’d gained so far. A bit of subtle misdirection on my part. Not quite lying, but enough misleading half-truths to have the Think Tank barking up the wrong tree. It also found me my formal cape name, which I had mixed feelings about but ultimately accepted, as it both tied in neatly with what I’d gained from Kid Win’s powers and gave the impression that all of my powers were Tinkertech-based. After all, Trumps were a major threat, often because their powers were always a wildcard… but Tinkers were accepted for being able to come up with new tricks for different situations in a (relatively) less intimidating way.  
  
Most of all, it kept me off Cauldron’s radar; at least for a while. I hoped. May they not figure out I could copy the powers of and effectively replace the Triumvirate in a few weeks until I was already powerful enough to dictate doing so on my own terms.  
  
And, on that note, I was not following orders. Let the Think Tank think my ‘meta’ power had a cap—which, for all I knew, it did. Let them think I got limited returns from copying the same capes. Let them finally consider giving me a goddamn Brute power to enhance my survivability enough to put me on the world stage, like Dauntless’s slow but potentially limitless growth.  
  
Until then, I was going AWOL. Doing what I needed to do, for my own sake.  
  
Self-care was important, after all.  
  
\---  
  
It began in the Wards’ headquarters with an innocent question.  
  
“Hey, you got a second?”  
  
Carla looked up from her homework, pulling the badly chewed pencil from her mouth with a soft plop and a faint look of embarrassment when she realized what she had been doing. “Oh, um. Yes, Chris, what can I do for you?”  
  
I sat down at the round table she was working at, glancing down at the papers laid out before her. Looked like… history? Yeah, I didn’t miss school. I leaned forward on my elbows, squaring up to her with a polite smile.  
  
“Could you help me with something?”  
  
She sat up straighter, eager to please. “Of course.”  
  
“Great.” I took her power, silencing the itch. “Thanks!”  
  
I flashed a bright smile and left her behind, looking faintly confused.  
  
Step one: success.  
  
\---  
  
“There are certainly advantages to being independent.”  
  
Sir Photon was a damn attractive man. And not in an intimidating way, either. Handsome without being fake, confident without being cocksure, and a practiced public speaker. He had a sort of grace about him that natural fliers gained without thinking. And he had a way of looking at you that made you feel like you were being listened to, not just stared at until it was his turn to talk. It was rather disarming, all told.  
  
“And unmasked, even if it can be a bit rough at times. You have to get used to a certain amount of public scrutiny. But that only encourages the kind of accountability New Wave is all about.”  
  
I nodded politely, sipping my tea. It was oversteeped, astringent, biting unpleasantly. Served me right for thinking the fancy Boardwalk cafe had anything to drink worth a damn. Eleven dollars for hot leaf water and a dry scone. Truly a sign of the failures of capitalism.  
  
“You said you haven’t been announced, right? Thinking of jumping ship, going it alone?”  
  
Laserbeam lacked the poise of his father, but made up for it with youthful enthusiasm. College kids these days, so full of energy. He shared the same diamond-shaped face, strong cheekbones, and boyish grin, and I caught him looking at my—at _me_ , more than once, when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.  
  
Which, really, I wasn’t. I got what I needed as soon as they sat down at the table. But unlike with Carla, I had to at least pretend there was some substance to this meeting I’d asked for.  
  
Realizing he’d asked me a question, I gave him a polite smile. “I’m afraid the contract’s already signed. But it was under…” I blinked slowly, taking in a breath through my nose. “Extenuating circumstances. Maybe I can get out of it, depending on how my time with the Protectorate goes.”  
  
Sir Photon nodded, sipping his own mocha latte something-or-other. “If you’re looking for legal advice, I’d have to refer you to my brother—”  
  
I waved him off before he could continue, which I only realized might have been rude when I saw his expression shift for a moment. Whatever. “No worries. Just wanted to meet with folks on the other side of the fence, see if the grass really is greener.”  
  
Conversation lasted a short while longer, only until I could make an excuse and leave. I think Laserbeam wanted to give me his number, but didn’t have the guts to ask in front of his father. I was quietly relieved that he didn’t.  
  
Step two: success.  
  
\---  
  
It was chilly on the roof, but the view was decent despite the cloud cover giving a gray cast to the city below. Looking out over the streets and buildings, I could see—for the first time, for some of it—the landmarks of Brockton Bay. The Rig glittered in the bay from afar, force field shimmering. The Boat Graveyard was as dingy and depressing as I’d imagined. The Forsberg Gallery, a modern architectural nightmare. All the other points of reference I’d thought to look for wouldn’t show up for a few months… or not at all, depending on how I changed the timeline.  
  
I was on my fifth cigarette before the door opened behind me. I heard the newcomer stop when he saw me, a barely audible sigh escaping his lips when he realized he couldn’t smoke by himself in peace. I half-turned after a moment, saw the freckled teen decked in red and white give me a flat look of irritation and disappointment.  
  
He walked to the railing a good twenty feet away, fished out a pack of cigarettes from within his robes, huddled against the wind—back to me—and took a few deep inhales, trying his damnedest to pretend I didn’t exist.  
  
Sorry dude. Today wasn’t your day.  
  
Might not have been mine either, depending on how this conversation went.  
  
“Caduceus?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.  
  
“I’m just trying to take a break. Please let me enjoy my nicotine in peace.”  
  
I took a few steps closer, not wanting to shout. I could see him tense as he heard me approach, fixing me with a baleful glare, full of resentment barely tempered with the need to maintain at least some pretense of positive public relations. I stopped out of his reach, at a distance I thought was polite.  
  
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m—”  
  
“I don’t do requests.”  
  
“—the newest Protectorate hero in the bay. Going to be announced soon.” Maybe that would help?  
  
His expression made it clear his position hadn’t changed. Damnit.  
  
I bit the bullet. “I _know_ you don't do requests. I know me being a Protectorate member shouldn't grant me extra privileges. I know you're already under a tremendous amount of pressure. But I wouldn't forgive myself if I didn't at least ask."  
  
He fixed me with an impressively flat look, as if to say he’d seen it all, heard it all, and wasn’t going to be surprised, or moved. Took a puff from his cigarette.  
  
“I’m a recent trigger.” The briefest bit of sympathy, but only a flash. “Two weeks ago, I was a man. Now, I’m…” I gestured down at my everything, lips tightening. “Not.”  
  
He raised an eyebrow incrementally. “If it’s a result of your trigger—my sympathies, by the way—my power probably can’t reverse it. Not permanently. Like Case 53s. It doesn’t take.”  
  
I squeezed my eyes shut, took a steadying breath. So far nothing in this conversation was unexpected, but I still had to go through the motions.  
  
“I’m… dealing with it as best I can. But can you… please. I’m begging you. Please just... try?”  
  
It wouldn’t solve all my problems. He couldn’t make me grow a foot in height, broaden my shoulders, return my strength, my beard, my goddamn… not without a lot of extra biomass, anyway. And who knows where he’d get the stray cats and dogs. But it’d be _something_. Something returned that had been taken from me.  
  
Caduceus, Andy, to his credit, twitched just a little. One hand raised an inch, in reflex.  
  
My heart sank before he even started to speak.  
  
"I'm sorry. Put your name on the list, but... you aren't injured, you don't have cancer, you're not going to be a high priority." Despite his air of irritation, of giving bad news he’d given a thousand times, he did seem genuinely apologetic. Probably from long practice. “Sorry,” he repeated, and almost seemed like he meant it.  
  
I closed my eyes, gave him a small smile for the effort. It made sense. I knew this was going to happen when I came up with the plan. If he said yes to someone 'just this once', you could pretty much guarantee it wouldn’t be just that once. It might have felt harsh, but I could understand why he'd want to draw a line in the sand and stick to it. And maybe him being a man in this universe gave him a bit more leeway there; he wasn’t a ‘cold, heartless bitch’, he was ‘strong and principled’. Not that that helped me any.  
  
“Had to try,” I said, voice thick, trying not to cry.  
  
I left him to finish his cigarette in peace beneath the gray, overcast sky.  
  
Step three: failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Chris.


	14. Day 14.14 : Debutante

**Debutante**  
  
I turned around in front of the mirror. Once, twice. Shifted my weight, felt the tech harness pull a little, adjust.  
  
If I had to wear an 'enhanced' chest piece, I could at least make it _useful_. Packed it full of tech, interchangeable, hot-swapped parts. All slapped together, more or less; most of my material requests hadn't been approved yet. Hadn't made it through the queue, most likely. I was working with Armsmaster's scraps and Kid Win's discarded, half-assembled components—the latter of which was rapidly dwindling as our work together ran through her spare parts. And what bits I had thrown together all had to compete with each other for power draw, because the goddamn pencil-pushers in the PRT wouldn't hurry the fuck up on my depleted uranium requisition.  
  
Regardless, the harness meant I didn't have much more unfamiliar, uncomfortable, slightly awkward weight hanging off my chest than... well, than I normally did, these days.  
  
This was probably the longest I'd looked at myself in the mirror since my first day. Hell, I'd been showering in the dark, for the most part. I double-checked the door to the changing room was locked, just in case.  
  
I let my eyes be drawn downward. Bright orange-yellow leggings, practically painted on. Between that and the faint blue glow from my chest and back pieces, I was strangely reminded of Tracer from Overwatch. You know, except without the perky personality, or cockney accent. And instead of a bomber jacket, my top was yet more ‘we swear it's not Spandex’ in darker blue, framed by the dull grey plastic of the housing for my portable tech suite. Half a dozen cylinders jutted out along the bottom and sides, each an inch wide and six inches long, each a self-contained module that added its own functionality to the power core at the chest and the repeaters at hips, elbows, knees, wrists and ankles. Each module was coded in color and texture for easy swapping. More were stored, inactive, at my lower back, although most of those slots were still empty.  
  
To top it all off, literally and figuratively, a helmet, sleek, with a swooping visor. My hair was considered too distinctive to allow me to keep it as part of my costume, and I didn't mind the added protection. It had also been explained to me that most of Armsmaster's current hair was extensions, after a few encounters with Lung, but it was easier to simply keep them in rather than reapply before every patrol or public appearance.  
  
Image had denied my request for armored gauntlets. The fuckers.  
  
I resisted the urge—yet again—to lift into the air, to try to match my true height. Until I got all the powers I wanted out of the Protectorate, or they adjusted or surrendered control over my power schedule, I couldn't reveal all of my abilities. I was perfectly ok with keeping them secret, it was just irritating to constantly hobble myself for bureaucratic bullshit.  
  
Speaking of which, I had caused so much of a 'fuss' about my costume that I barely had any time to get used to it before—  
  
There was a knock at the door. "Are you finished in there? You go on stage in five."  
  
I sighed, gave my reflection a sneer, then exited the changing room. "Yeah, yeah."  
  
Battery had a concerned expression on his face, looking down at me as I emerged. A bit uncomfortably close, but I resisted the urge to create more distance. I still had trouble getting used to the goddamn height difference. He was only 5'8"!  
  
I looked back up at him with a raised eyebrow. "What?"  
  
He shook his head slightly, lips tugging down in a frown. "Are you sure you're ready for this? We could delay if—"  
  
"It's fine. Let's get this over with."  
  
Lips pursed together, now irritated at my interruption, but too polite to comment on it. "It's an honor to join the Protectorate. Not everybody gets that opportunity, you know."  
  
I raised my eyebrow at him in disbelief, but I think the visor obscured it, and he must have taken my skepticism as consideration, because he went on. "We all work hard to be where we are today. We're doing good things. Would it kill you to be a little more approachable? Maybe even smile a bit for the people back home?"  
  
A crowbar appeared in my hand, unbidden. He didn't seem to notice. I looked down at his kneecaps, so conveniently within reach.  
  
Probably wouldn't go over well.  
  
Taking a breath, I turned the everweapon into two small pistols and jammed them into discreet hip holsters.  
  
Let no one say I couldn't be the bigger person.  
  
I bared my teeth in a grimace.  
  
Strangely, he didn't seem appeased, and made no movement to guide me to backstage where undoubtedly I was making a stage manager very upset. "You're a hero now. You need to act like it. And that includes not looking like someone just killed your dog."  
  
Alright, that made me laugh, just a little.  
  
Oddly enough that wasn't the reaction he seemed to be hoping for, but despite a slight droop to his shoulders and a sigh, he still half-turned to let me pass by, towards the waiting area behind the curtain. Still too close for comfort, but the halls were packed with chairs and crates. Couldn't blame him too much.  
  
Finally in position, I couldn't help but fidget, shifting my weight from one (goddamn sensible, and only after much fighting) heeled shoe to the other, checking my harness, twirling my small pistols before holstering them again, and generally trying not to hyperventilate.  
  
An eternity later, I heard my cue.  
  
"And it is my honor and privilege to announce Brockton Bay's newest defender, the latest member of Protectorate East-North-East, the hero... Hotswap!"  
  
Half-blinded by flashbulbs, heart racing, limbs shaking, I faced my most dreaded foe yet. _The public_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure Chris had long since decided that "the next person to tell me to 'smile more' was getting their kneecaps broken". In this case they decided, in their infinite generosity, to abstain. Probably not good for PR.
> 
> And here's Chris's official debut—along with the reveal of the much-maligned v1 costume and official cape name!


	15. Day 15.15 : Yeet

**Yeet**  
  
You know what was worse than facing a bunch of journalists with cameras on a stage?  
  
Facing a bunch of yahoos on the street with cell cameras and _no sense of personal space_.   
  
God bless Armsmaster and Dauntless for keeping the brunt of the crowd at bay, nestling me between their armored bodies like a lost child. Which, frankly, I was starting to feel like.  
  
“ _Please_ try to smile,” my Image consultant begged over the comms. “This is your moment. Shine!”  
  
Swear to god, I was going to break his teeth in when I got back to base.  
  
_If_ I got back to base.  
  
“Keep your distance, please,” Armsmaster declared, voice amplified and commanding. It cleared a small gap, thank fuck, and Dauntless ushered me through it right behind her, covering the rear.  
  
Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it felt. There were barely fifty people out on the Boardwalk when we climbed out of the PRT van, starting my first public patrol in costume. A costume which suddenly felt even more skin-tight and restrictive than it did in the press conference the day before. I didn’t remember sweating this much. It wasn’t the sun, still hidden behind the clouds. The chill wind from the bay, biting and crisp, only made me shiver.  
  
Maybe the mass of people was smaller than that. I couldn’t tell from my viewpoint, just felt the press of bodies surrounding us on all sides. A malicious horde, teeth bared in fake grins like rictus masks.  
  
The crowd was surging closer in waves, _reaching_ , phones held high like talismans in prayer, trying to get that one perfect shot of the new hero. Selfies. Flashes sparkling like fireworks.  
  
Armsmaster bulled her way through like an icebreaker, crowd parting in her wake. Somehow she was handing out signed photos of herself at the same time. Efficient. I tried to focus on that instead of all the faces, jeering, trying to get my attention, demanding I validate their existence, that I acknowledge their presence by something besides a panicked, plastic smile. Even accidental eye contact seemed to whip them into a furor, and why were they shouting? _Why_?  
  
Oh. Some of them were asking questions. I could barely parse the words.  
  
Dauntless actually flared her shield, a bubble of safe space surrounding us temporarily as she made it clear that I’d be happy to answer questions one at a time. It was a lie, but it helped.  
  
“Hotswap! What made you choose that name?”  
  
“It’s my specialty,” I stammered. Shouts that I was too quiet. I repeated myself, louder. God, I wished I was back in my lab.  
  
“Who on the team are you fucking?”  
  
I just blinked at that one. Armsmaster fielded it with nothing but a withering glare of disapproval.  
  
We were slowly moving through the Boardwalk, footsteps thudding woodenly, and I had a brief moment of worry that the whole thing would collapse into the sea under the weight of the crowd, like an early Leviathan. Kind of invited it.  
  
“Why do you have guns on your belt?”  
  
“Because I’m not allowed to draw them at civilians,” I muttered, and thankfully nobody heard except Image, judging by the sharp intake of breath in my earpiece. Armsmaster looked back at me for a moment, though, and I thought I caught some eye-crinkles. Or maybe that was just the lighting. Or wishful thinking.  
  
That moment of distraction was all that the crowd was waiting for.  
  
Someone reached out, I didn’t know for what. All I knew was the hand on my arm, grabbing, _pulling_.  
  
I yanked at the module at my chest, twisting with a sharp motion. Reflexive.  
  
And then I was hurtling through the air, wind howling in my ears.  
  
I heard shouting. I saw the world spin dizzyingly, ground and sky and ground and sky and _shit_ —  
  
Reach for the module—  
  
Hand slipped—  
  
Caught—  
  
Twisted just as the building filled my vision, approaching with terrifying speed—  
  
Clipped the edge of the roof, tumbling—  
  
A tremendous _crash_ of screeching metal and the smell of ozone and—  
  
Damnit, blew a fuse in the landing.  
  
Armsmaster found me first, half in a partially-crushed dumpster in an alleyway fifty feet from the Boardwalk, legs dangling out one end. My head was spinning, heart pounding, body aching like I’d just been run through a rock tumbler. I saw the force bubble blocking the entrance to the alley, heard the screech of tires, saw the familiar colors of the PRT van coming from the opposite direction.  
  
She said nothing, checking me over for injuries, stabilizing my head as I was carried off. Or maybe she did, I couldn’t tell with her mouth covered. The sound of my pulse hammering in my ears was deafening.  
  
I focused, in the way a concussed person does, on the way her hair fell like a curtain around us, blocking out the light, the crowd, the flashes of what must have been cameras. So very impractical, but I couldn’t help being grateful for it.  
  
\---  
  
The debrief was short, but covered a few important points.  
  
One, my public appearances were on hold until I received more training.  
  
Two, my kinetic field’s secondary escape function did work as intended, but needed refinement.  
  
Three, it was still a better debut than Clockblocker’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote Kittius regarding Armsmaster passing out pre-autographed pictures of herself: "Alas, the review committee vetoed Armsmaster's design for a 'promotional material distribution cannon' on the grounds of 'what the fuck is she thinking?'"
> 
> (Personally I'd love to see that. Especially when used to fight crime.)


	16. Day 16.16 : Pieces

**Pieces**  
  
“Oh, uh, Hotswap. I’m—I’m sorry how your first patrol went.”  
  
I gave Christie a thin smile. She seemed to mean it, at least. Everyone addressed the events of the previous day differently.  
  
Assault spent thirty minutes telling me horror stories of everyone else’s failures. Battery’s wardrobe malfunctions, Minuteman’s Kurdish swearing caught on camera after getting in a wrestling match with Mush, Armsmaster’s tech failures, Velocity tripping and skidding for thirty feet in front of a group of elementary schoolers, Dauntless getting run over by one of Road Hog’s vehicles. Nobody was spared, least of all herself, although most of her stories were far too filthy to be repeated. I had to admit, it had _some_ entertainment value, and made me feel marginally better that I only ended up mildly concussed instead of with full-body road rash or covered in rotten garbage.  
  
Armsmaster tried to spin it with her implacable optimism. Opportunities to improve, learning where weaknesses were so we could better correct them later, that sort of thing.  
  
Dauntless gave me a hug, told me I’d do better next time.  
  
Velocity baked me a pie.  
  
Minuteman didn’t say anything at all, oddly enough. Just treated me as though it had been a perfectly normal patrol. I almost appreciated that the most.  
  
Battery gave me stilted words of encouragement, a technique which Kid Win apparently sought to emulate. Julian, however, had the decency to make his exit soon after. Christie lingered.  
  
“Do you need—do you want any help with repairs?”  
  
“It’s fine,” I said, still not looking up from my tech harness. I was almost finished; only a handful of parts needed refurbishing or replacing. A few burned fuses, a kinetic modulator that needed realignment, some sensitivity adjustment on controls, and—  
  
There was a sudden screech as the stool Christie was dragging over scraped the ground. “Oh, um… sorry,” she said sheepishly. She picked up the seat, plopped it down beside me at the workbench. Looked over my shoulder, looming, getting all up in my space.  
  
I closed my eyes, counted to ten, breathing slowly like the therapist taught me. In, count, hold. Out, count, hold. Opened my eyes again, looked at Christie, actually seeing her instead of vaguely acknowledging her presence.  
  
She was sitting ramrod straight, one leg bouncing wildly, both hands grasping her knees, practically quivering in place as though she was a dog waiting to be taken out for a walk. Damnit, she was even biting her lip.  
  
I tried not to sigh, put down my micro-annealer, and turned to face her. Plastered an indulgent smile on my face. “Is there something you want to—”  
  
_“I think I figured out my specialty!”_  
  
I twitched at the unexpected dog-whistle squeak her words slipped into by the end of that. Then I deciphered what the vibrating teenager had said and a broad smile crossed my face. “You did?”  
  
_“I did!”_  
  
Gah, I felt that in my _teeth_. Still, her enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself rolling with it. “Yeah? What is it?”  
  
“Well, remember how you were talking to me about my components and the frameworks around them, and then Armsmaster said she always had to strip out unnecessary functions in my designs, and I always felt like they’d make things better with them because it was easier to have something do something extra rather than have it only do one thing like those kitchen tools Velocity always goes on rants about that take up space because they only have a single purpose instead of just using a knife or a plane or—”  
  
My smile only grew as she gradually—with many detours—got to the point. I didn’t mind, since I already knew how the story would end anyway. I was glad I hadn’t just spelled it out for her. Watching her realize it on her own was worth the effort.  
  
Maybe there was _some_ merit to this whole ‘delayed gratification’ business.  
  
“—and I’ve got so many ideas on how you could modify your designs to have multiple functions but then I realized you’d _already_ built them that way with your modules and that’s where you got the whole Hotswap thing from and wished I’d seen it sooner but I know Armsmaster was frustrated and I was frustrated at how I couldn’t figure things out and I couldn’t have done it without you _thank you thank you thank you!_ ”  
  
And then she squeezed me in a hug so tight I was pretty sure she cracked a rib. Along with possibly making me deaf in one ear. Still gave me the warm-and-fuzzies, though.  
  
God knows I needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kid Win continues to be adorable.


	17. Day 16.17 : Number One

**Number One**  
  
Shadow Stalker didn’t talk much. I appreciated that.  
  
He didn’t say shit when I kept up with him on the rooftops, either. Even without visible Tinkertech. After all, he knew my power. Had been there my first day with it. And he was no snitch, I knew that much. Although perhaps it was the threat of mutually assured destruction that kept him quiet.  
  
He didn’t say anything when I led us into Empire territory this time, either. All in all he was so much better than fanon gave him credit for. Maybe you just had to be as crazy as he was. However, when I set up shop on the roof of an apartment building—one of a pair, nestled in a small cluster of towers—and pulled out a rifle as long as I was (just to use the scope, honest) to peer at the neighboring windows, he had to break his silence.  
  
“You gonna kill someone tonight?”  
  
I paused, looked over to him where he was crouched at the edge of the building beside me. The casual way he said it… it seemed less of a ‘you monster’ and more of a ‘do I need an alibi’ question. I kinda had to respect that.  
  
“No. Just watching.” I didn’t have any charges left for the day anyway. This was purely reconnaissance.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Radiant.”  
  
He sucked on his teeth, thinking. Nodded once. Pulled out his own binoculars, tried to follow my line of sight.  
  
I gave him a long look, considering, then shook my head and looked back through the scope. I was surprised Purity still had custody of the kid in this universe, without the mother advantage. I could only imagine it was a power play on Maxine’s part, some way of keeping him under her thumb. Or maybe she just wanted an on-call babysitter and the twins weren’t any better with kids than I was.  
  
Said twins were why I was doing reconnaissance, in the end. I mean, I hated the Empire and everything they stood for. I’d broken a few skinhead skulls with Shadow Stalker before, prevented a few muggings, gotten some useful intel. But Huginn and Muninn were at the top of my list not for their involvement in the neo-Nazi gang nor their proximity to Kaiserin; I wanted their _powers_. More than flight, as useful as it was; more than the Tinker powers that promised boundless rewards given enough resources and time; more than the ability to shit nukes, what I wanted was to be strong, tough, and _big_ again. To not feel so goddamned small all the time. To recover a tiny bit of who, what I used to be.  
  
Even as I thought that, I remembered the mantra. _This is who I am now. I am in control of myself and my body._  
  
It still rang false.  
  
Maybe their power would help.  
  
But first, I needed to map out the Empire. And that’s why I looked down the barrel of the Hakim rifle at an unassuming but tastefully decorated apartment, stalking in the shadows with Shadow Stalker.  
  
“Don’t see any men in the apartment.”  
  
I squinted. He was right. There was a teenager, who I imagined was Theodora, sitting on the couch watching TV. She was cradling an infant in her arms, and I got an uncomfortable feeling of deja vu watching Aster’s distaff counterpart through the crosshairs of a gun.  
  
No sign of Keith. The yellow pages had led me to the right place, and his appointment calendar said he had the night off when I spoke to the administrative assistant at his interior design firm. Maybe he was in the bathroom?  
  
Or maybe I was wasting the night on a cold rooftop, high winds chilling me to the bone.  
  
Worth a shot, figuratively speaking.  
  
I was just settling in for a long night when there was a burst of brilliant light on top of the neighboring building. Blinding, like a second sun. Slack-jawed, I watched it arc, heading over…  
  
Heading right towards us.  
  
“Shadow—”  
  
Aaand he was gone. Goddamnit.  
  
I was completely without cover, pointing a rifle—it vanished at the thought—at Radiant’s step-daughter and child, dressed in black and _oh fuck—_  
  
And then Radiant was there. Blindingly bright. Slim. Feeling bigger than his relatively small frame. Pointing a hand right at me. “You have five seconds to explain what the hell you’re—”  
  
I did the only thing I could think of.  
  
I squeed.  
  
He flinched at the sound, but—thankfully!—didn't blast me.  
  
"It's you it's you it's you!"  
  
God help me, but the sheer terror did a great job of making my voice a high-pitched, breathless squeal.  
  
“Ex—excuse me?”  
  
His hand lowered an inch in confusion. I was committed now.  
  
“I knew I’d get to see you eventually! The, um, forum, said you were frequently spotted in this area and so I snuck onto this rooftop with my binoculars—” on the rooftop beside me, where Shadow Stalker ditched them “—to try to catch a glimpse and you’re right here _oh my gawd!_ ”  
  
He seemed confused. From what I could tell under the glare, anyway. I could only hope…  
  
“You… you’re…”  
  
I was practically screaming now. Had to sell it. _“I’m your number one fan!”_  
  
The look on his face must have been priceless. If only I’d had my goggles. I could almost imagine the doubt, happiness, shock and anger crossing his expression in a heartbeat.  
  
I just clutched my hands together in a begging motion. I even bit my lip for good measure, thinking of Kid Win for a moment. “Can I have your autograph?”  
  
He folded like a house of cards.  
  
“I… you’re my _fan_?”  
  
“The biggest! You’re just so awesome and inspiring and, and, and the way you left the Empire to become a hero is, is such a beautiful story! There’s whole forums—ok, subforums—dedicated to pictures and stories of you, the people you’ve saved, and…”  
  
He sagged in the air a foot, then cradled his head in one hand. I gave him a moment to breathe. I could only hope calling out his attempts at being a hero had the intended effect.  
  
“You can’t just—do you know how dangerous it is to stalk a cape? I could have—do your parents know you’re out here?”  
  
I suppressed a twitch. _Just… roll with it._  
  
Giving him my best guilty teenager expression—I’d seen enough from the Wards to hazard one—I mumbled, “I mean…”  
  
He sighed. “That’s a no, then. They must be worried sick.” He looked me over, black hoodie on black pants, lack of visible weapons, frowned. “It’s not safe on the streets at night. How are you getting home?”  
  
I blinked. “A... cab?” Radiant gave me a look that only a parent could give. Oh no, he was _not_ thinking what I thought he was thinking. “It’s fine, I’ve gone out like this plenty of times! I’ll be fine.” He crossed his arms. “...How about that autograph?”  
  
\---  
  
In the end I managed to convince him not to fly me home. And got an autograph. And a selfie. And my life.  
  
All in exchange for a sworn oath not to chase down capes ever, ever again.  
  
And to let my parents know where I was at night.  
  
Shadow Stalker joined me after I ducked in an alleyway, having walked far enough that Glowing Nazi Dad couldn’t see me not get in a cab. Scared the bejeezus out of me while he was at it—and thank fuck I didn’t scream, because that would have only drawn Radiant down to us again, after I’d traded my dignity to get rid of him the first time.  
  
I hissed at the off-duty Ward, “Where the fuck were _you_?”  
  
“In cover, with a crossbow trained on him the whole time.”  
  
“Uh huh. Sure.”  
  
"You seemed to handle it okay." A beat. "Or maybe you wanted to handle him. You know he's a neo-Nazi, right?"  
  
I gave him a flat look. "Maybe when you're older I'll explain the concept of 'hatefucking'." He made a disgusted sound. I felt compelled to defend my theater against the teenager’s scorn. “Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”  
  
I could almost sense his eyes rolling. "Hmph. So, did you get his number?"  
  
“I asked. I think he might have, if he hadn’t thought I was a teenager."  
  
He paused. Gave me a look from behind his hockey mask.  
  
"You really are one fucking crazy bitch," he said, not for the first time.  
  
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social-fu!


	18. Day 17.18 : Meetings are Bullshit

**Meetings are Bullshit**  
  
Tinkering involved far more trial and error than I'd expected. Even after getting what I suspected was the full value of both Armsmaster and Kid Win's powers, and then some, sometimes the best way to build was to put things together in different ways and see what worked best.  
  
_Fzzt._  
  
Move that capacitor over to the other cable. More stutter-stop, something about sending electrons where they were a sixteenth of a second earlier. Kid Win's stuff, made smaller, but still easily shifted around for what Armsmaster described—with a nearly imperceptible trace of pride—as 'rapid prototyping'. Better than ‘rapid unscheduled deconstruction’, as some of my projects had undergone. She had a very positive attitude—every failure is a lesson and a path towards success—but it was a bit more frustrating on my end. _I_ didn’t already have power armor, for fuck’s sake.  
  
Hum- _Fzzt._  
  
Closer. It was like assembling a puzzle with no edge pieces, where there were multiple solutions, and both parts missing and other parts superfluous. And no box to compare the solution to.  
  
_Fzzt-_ POP.  
  
Whoops. Another capacitor blown. A flick of a finger sent it into a tiny pile with the others, smaller than a grain of rice. I could repurpose them, probably.  
  
It took a few seconds to realize the room had gone silent. I looked up and blinked when I refocused my eyes to see everyone staring my way. All the Protectorate East-North-East capes in one room, except for two on patrol; Deputy Director Renick, and Director Piggot, their expressions a spectrum curving between anger and disappointment, with frustration nestling in the middle. Under the weight of all their attention, I wanted to flinch back, to sit up straighter, to make excuses, to try to figure out why they were looking.  
  
I took a slow, deliberate swallow, forcing myself not to back down, to show weakness.  
  
"Is there something in my teeth?"  
  
I bared them in a grimace, a threat display barely disguised as a smile.  
  
Assault smirked. Minuteman shook his head. Director Piggot looked like he bit into a lemon.  
  
"No Tinkering at meetings, Hotswap. Armsmaster should have made you aware of this. You've been here long enough to have learned _some_ regulations, at least."  
  
I could see Colleen start to lean forward, ready to either excuse herself or speak in my defense. I wasn't sure which, but spoke before she could.  
  
"Armsmaster made it very clear that 'no tools, Tinkertech or otherwise, are permitted during meetings except where expressly approved for demonstration purposes'." I tried to keep the sarcasm from my voice, I really did. Before the Director could say something scathing about me deliberately disobeying orders, I clarified. "I, however, am not _using_ any tools."  
  
I held up a lone finger. Index, because I was a _lady_.  
  
A centimeter above it floated a spare micro-capacitor, slowly spinning in place.  
  
_This one goes to eleven_ , I thought. For all I'd rather have branched out my powers once maxing out on two different Tinkers, I had to admit the Think Tank's prescribed experiment showed interesting results.  
  
Somehow the Director's frown deepened. It did unpleasant things to his already-prodigious jowls. Probably bad for his blood pressure. I was sure it didn't help his kidneys, either.  
  
Funny, I had respect for Piggot before she—before _he_ became my direct superior. Familiarity bred contempt, I supposed. Or maybe it was the difference between accepting they made hard decisions in hard situations and actually having to report to them personally.  
  
Still, this experiment was a bust. I might as well power through the rest of the 9 AM standup meeting. I carefully, deliberately, and unhurriedly packed up the repurposed antigrav panel, straightened my posture, flicked an errant strand of blue-green hair out from my eyes, and plastered on a plastic expression of bland attention.  
  
The Director watched this unfold in silence, chewing on their frustration, fixing me with what they probably thought was a wilting glare until I presented a facade of cooperation sufficient to mollify them.  
  
What was the worst he could do, anyway? Take away my Tinker privileges?  
  
He didn't have the balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nine AM status meetings, the opposite of productivity.


	19. Day 17.19 : Fallout

**Fallout**  
  
I was going to tear off his balls and feed them to him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Dragon," I said, as calmly as I could; he didn't deserve my anger. Don't shoot the messenger, after all. "But I thought I heard you say I wasn't allowed inside the lab?" I forced a hollow chuckle. Bad jokes were still jokes, right?  
  
He looked genuinely apologetic, and possibly a little nervous. "Armsmaster made it very clear you weren't allowed to Tinker for twenty-four hours." I felt a muscle in my cheek spasm. "Director's orders." I thought I might have cracked a molar. "I can ask her to confirm, if you'd like?"  
  
I glanced past the small monitor at the vault-like blast door containing all of my tools, experiments, works in progress, and the entirety of my tech harness. Everything I'd worked towards, built and rebuilt, sketched out and prototyped, scrapped and started over and iterated inch by painful inch, locked behind two feet of reinforced steel and at least one force field. If I listened hard enough, I could almost hear the hum of the fabbers, the buzz of the robotic manipulators, the hiss of ventilation systems.  
  
One of the few places I felt the closest to at peace since I'd first arrived in Brockton Bay, and it was gone. Stripped away, because... what? I didn't bark on command? I refused to pretend that daily status meetings had any value whatsoever?  
  
I spun on my heels, shoving myself towards the stairs. I thought Dragon might have said something, but I wasn't paying attention.  
  
_Fuck that noise!_  
  
My outerwear blurred to green, reformed into a dark coat. Boots fit for walking the Docks at night without fearing tetanus; gloves, a scarf that covered my face. A beanie to keep my hair hidden, my head warm.  
  
It took me less than fifteen minutes to make my way to the other side of the light bridge, which glittered in the warm, unexpectedly bright morning sunlight.  
  
Another half hour to reach Merchant territory on foot.  
  
Two hours to interrogate enough Merchants to point me in the right direction.  
  
Three hours after being locked out of my home away from home, I was staring at the pig-like mask of Road Hog as he postured and ranted, threatened to do abhorrent things to me, tried to intimidate me into submission. After the last few days? I didn’t give a _fuck_.  
  
Four hours after being betrayed by the Protectorate, I was drunk, high, and shoulders-deep in a seventeen-gear manual transmission for what could have been charitably described as a monster truck actively fucking a riding mower, pocketing interesting-looking parts and shouting equal parts technobabble and dirty jokes with a man six times my size and ten times filthier over German industrial music remixed with the sounds of a dying outboard motor.  
  
Twenty-three hours into my forced Tinker 'sabbatical' I rode back across the light bridge to the Rig on a motorcycle built out of chainsaws, an industrial freezer, and a '92 Chevy Impala; high off my perky little tits, ever so slightly on fire, and sporting a smile so wide Armsmaster almost forgot to reprimand me.  
  
The fact that I also returned with Road Hog, passed out and strapped down to the sidecar, was probably the only reason I wasn't immediately shipped off to Alaska or the Madison Exclusion Zone.  
  
Granted, thanks to mandatory detox and M/S confinement it took another twenty-four hours before I was let back into the lab, but it was _so_ fucking worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This did not go as well as the Protectorate had hoped it would.


	20. Day 18.20 : Ink

**Ink**  
  
Was it worth it?  
  
Coming down from the thrill of my day's adventure was only exacerbated by literally coming down from whatever the fuck I'd accepted from Road Hog and the liberal amount of alcohol I'd consumed during my Tinker binge.  
  
I could hear my eyelids rasp every time I blinked. My throat was a cracked playa post Burning Man. No amount of water or mediocre mess hall grub slid through a slot in the door could settle my stomach or lessen the pounding headache. Even the lights had obnoxious dancing rainbow auras I truly, genuinely wished would chill the fuck out. Worst of all, I wasn’t even given a notebook to Tinker in.  
  
I looked at myself in the small mirror in the lower-tier M/S cell. Bags under my eyes I'd have to check in at the airport. Chapped lips. Small burns and scrapes on all of my exposed skin, none in bad shape or hurting too much—thanks, Aegis—but all of it stacking on top of my condition to make me feel like roadkill warmed over. Blue-green hair, wavy, wilted over one side of my face, the roots dark brown; the other half of my scalp, formerly-shaved, had grown half an inch since I first arrived. Needed a trim. It'd have to wait, like everything else.  
  
Nail polish was mostly scraped off, too. Never did like removing it.  
  
Abruptly I yawned, the movement nearly cracking my jaw. I blinked at my reflection, eyes watering, half familiar, half not. Was this what having a sister would have looked like? The nose was nearly the same, although smaller; eyes still as blue; complete absence of beard only somewhat compensated by the (mostly) full head of hair. The angles were different, along my jaw, a missing lump at my throat, the ears smaller, pierced. The height... I was a hair under five feet tall.  
  
My gaze crept downward towards my collar. In the small attached bathroom, I couldn't turn off the motion-activated lights. They wouldn't have a camera in here, right? This wasn't lockup, a holding cell; this wasn't even the stark concrete high-tier M/S cells deeper in the rig. This was just a glorified windowless hotel room, maybe even the same one I stayed in during my first week when we tested the effects of isolation from other capes on my power. I knew there was a camera in one corner, a screen along one wall, circles on the floor where I’d stand during check-ins. The bathroom seemed at least nominally private, though.  
  
Before I could change my mind, I dismissed my long-sleeve shirt, the material blurring into a green-black blob before merging into my belt. I saw my tattoos again for the first time, the different proportions of my thin arms, narrow shoulders changing the shapes and positioning. Intertwining serpents, tentacles, the world turtle, the scarab... Different but familiar, just like everything else.  
  
I found my eyes drawn to the weights on my chest, snuggled tightly in a simple black sports bra. Objectively, they weren't bad. They just weren't _me_. Given a choice, I might have enjoyed having them for a while.  
  
Not given a choice, they were deeply unsettling. Foreign invaders. Reminders of what I had lost, of what had been taken from me.  
  
That dark spiral of my thoughts was interrupted as my gaze caught something unfamiliar— _more_ unfamiliar—among my tattoos.  
  
How long had _that_ been there?  
  
I held my arm up close to my face, forcing my eyes to focus through the discomfort, squinting from the too-bright light.  
  
That disk was _not_ part of my designs. A series of concentric circles within, blue and gray, dotted lines getting finer and finer as they went down. More fine than tattoos could normally get if you hoped to keep them from blurring over years.  
  
I looked around for other changes. Found another circle, this one red and yellow, a not-quite checkerboard grid, different shapes stacking like Tetris blocks.  
  
A mushroom cloud ringed in green. What?  
  
A tire, fat and deeply grooved, in yellow, blue and gray. Why?  
  
A shield in red and white. Could it be...?  
  
A starburst in yellow and pink. Were those notches around the edges? Did they mean something?  
  
A skull in grey on black. One notch. Others had two, some had two rows of the small gaps, concentric.  
  
When I counted fourteen notches on two of the circles it all clicked.  
  
_Oh for fuck's sake._  
  
_This_ was how my power gave me feedback? Not, like, a mental switchboard, or a Gamer display, or even internal glowing orbs in my mindscape?  
  
I laughed out loud, voice raspy and thick, no doubt raising some confusion in my minders listening in. Dissolved into hacking coughs soon after.  
  
Better late than never, I supposed.  
  
At the next sunrise, before being released from confinement sober, disgruntled, but somewhat happier for knowing a little bit more about myself, there was a second notch in the black line circling my left wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you were wondering what was up with the tattoos. They're still there, and still work the same way.


	21. Day 19.21 : Connections

**Connections**  
  
I expected harsher punishment, to be honest.  
  
Sure, I got lectured within an inch of my life, Piggot fuming impotently and Armsmaster—despite her initial amusement—expressing her severe disappointment with my reaction to being evicted from the lab. What hurt more was the latter’s obvious sense of responsibility, like she had failed _me_ somehow.  
  
I agreed to limited Tinker hours, rather than going cold turkey. The Think Tank mumbled something about increased Tinker fugues from stacking multiple Tinker slots at once, and advised me to be more careful. And to take more notes about how I was feeling, day to day.  
  
I got the sense that Piggot had something planned, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what. I mean, I single-handedly dropped Road Hog in the Protectorate’s lap, practically gift-wrapped, and made a kickass motorcycle while I was at it. Speaking of which, said franken-chopper was currently squatting in the bowels of the Rig’s parking garage, because nobody wanted the responsibility of breaking it down for spare parts.  
  
It growled whenever anyone but me got within ten feet. More relevantly, it growled with _chainsaws_.  
  
A project for another day, way, way down on my priority list.  
  
\---  
  
Kid Win was a good kid.  
  
There was something so rewarding about seeing her finally give shape to her ideas, aided by Armsmaster and myself, with Dragon thrown in sometimes for good measure. And watching Kid Win blush whenever Dragon addressed her directly was, frankly, adorable.  
  
Armsmaster beamed like a proud mom when the first hovering gun modules teleported into place over Kid’s shoulders, bursting into existence in a flash of Tron lines and exotic particles. I couldn’t help but join her.  
  
Granted, figuring out what went wrong when the next module teleported into the wall—then exploded—was a harrowing experience, but that was just the Tinker life. And it turned my thoughts from ‘how do I use this for Striker powers’ to ‘how do I make a telefrag weapon’.  
  
“So, I have good news and bad news,” I declared several hours later, looking over some of the calculations on a data pad. Kid Win held her breath, but Armsmaster just glanced my way, curious.  
  
“The bad news is, someone transposed two variables, affecting the destination coordinates for the et cetera, et cetera.” Kid’s face sank, but I hurried to add, “The good news is, that someone was _me_.”  
  
I’d never witnessed anyone be so happy I messed up at math before.  
  
\---  
  
My knees quaked, sweat dripping from every pore, and Aegis looked fresh as a motherfucking daisy.  
  
“Ready for another round?”  
  
“Hold on a fuckin’ minute,” I wheezed, wiping my sodden hair from my face, trying to keep from falling over. Sure, I could fucking fly too, but nobody was supposed to know that, and I was too damn stubborn to give up the mask _now_.  
  
She had the nerve to shadow box, hovering a foot off the ground like a… like a…  
  
Fuck it, I was too wiped to come up with something clever. Sparring was _hard_.  
  
But I’d be damned if I gave up before she did, powers or not. I’d outlast her through sheer _spite_ if I had to.  
  
I staggered upright, putting my hands up. “Bring it, twerp.”  
  
She smiled as she kicked my ass.  
  
\---  
  
I could see chairs. A neon sign. A cup full of mismatched chopsticks.  
  
I wasn’t racist.  
  
I could smell chili oil, fish broth, and my own sweat.  
  
The nerves I was feeling had nothing to do with the ethnicity, culture, or language of the people around me.  
  
I could feel the plastic spoon in one hand, the cloth napkin in the other, and my hair tickling the back of my neck, like the breath of a stranger right behind me.  
  
I’d just… had a bad experience, that was all. One I was still working on.  
  
Goddamnit, I loved phở. This was _bullshit_. I shouldn’t be jumping at every person who walked near our table, or ducking from every shadow that passed by the window, or flinching when the waiter asked my order.  
  
Roxy—Triumph—was completely oblivious, happily slurping up noodles at her favorite restaurant, glad to share it with other members of the Protectorate. Team building, yay. Timing wasn’t suspicious or anything.  
  
Robin looked at me with concern, though, so apparently my stiff upper lip wasn’t as impenetrable as I’d hoped.  
  
“You alright there, Chris?”  
  
“Fine,” I replied, trying to smile. I could maintain. I was not going to cause a scene, embarrass myself. _This is who I am now. I am in control of myself and my body._  
  
Still didn’t feel right.  
  
“Soup not settling right?” Robin pressed on, giving me an out. Roxy looked concerned, glancing down at the noodles spiraling in her spoon, then back at me, mouth still full of her last spoonful.  
  
“No! Soup’s fine. It’s… allergies,” I mumbled, hoping my eyes weren’t watering. Maybe I could blame it on the chili oil.  
  
“How about we get this to go? My place isn’t far, we can eat there.” I could have kissed her. “I’ve just replaced the air filters, should give you some respite.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Roxy asked, the twat. “I mean—”  
  
“Yeah,” Robin confirmed, putting a hand on her teammate’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”  
  
I tried not to sigh in relief too loudly as we left, hating myself.  
  
\---  
  
Three shot burst, center mass.  
  
In the lane beside me, a staccato echo, better grouping. I adjusted my aim, tried again. _Rat-tat-tat_. Better.  
  
My weapon shifted. Something with more _oomph_. I crouched down, resting the front half of the heavy rifle on its tripod, trying not to tense as I braced myself. A thundering _crack_ I could feel in my bones, grateful I had my earmuffs.  
  
A heartbeat later, the same _crack_ from my right. Paper torn to shreds in both lanes. Probably overkill.  
  
Maybe I was a bit worked up.  
  
My weapon returned to my belt, familiar, comforting. Waited for the all clear, then hung up my earmuffs, headed from the range to the room adjacent, grabbed a paper cone from the stack, watched it fill with water from the canteen.  
  
Minuteman followed a short while later, careful to stay in my sight, not getting between me and the exits, not making any sudden movements. I stepped aside and they slowly moved to the canteen, getting their own cup. It was sweet, but as much as I appreciated his concern it felt a tiny bit patronizing. I wasn’t made of _glass_.  
  
“Hey... I’ve been doing some reading lately, and—”  
  
_Oh no._  
  
He smiled, teeth sparkling. “—And you probably don’t want to hear about it.”  
  
_What?_  
  
“If you want to talk, though, about your situation, or adjusting to the Protectorate, or anything at all, I want you to know I’m here.”  
  
I breathed out a laugh, watching his earnest, honest face. _Damnit Harold, you’re killing me here_.  
  
“Thanks,” I finally replied, unable to keep the smile from creeping on my face. “I appreciate the offer.”  
  
“Anytime.” His smile broadened, happy I was smiling. “Your aim is improving. Want to try out grenade launchers?”  
  
“...We can do that here?”  
  
His eyes twinkled.  
  
\---  
  
I stared at the iced coffee in front of me. It was swirled like the surface of Jupiter, different shades of brown slowly spinning down, forming tiny eddies, settling into faint striations.  
  
Dauntless—other Robin—sipped her own identical drink, made a satisfied face, then wiped her lips. I thought she’d want to talk about her work as a volunteer firefighter, or the hours she spent at a no-kill animal shelter on weekends, or the expectations of having an ever-growing power that put her in the national spotlight. Instead she wanted to make me coffee.  
  
She smiled, raised her eyebrows expectantly.  
  
“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t really like coffee.”  
  
Her smile didn’t falter. “Give it a shot.”  
  
I sniffed at it. I didn’t have the most refined palette, but I thought I could smell hazelnut, almonds, cinnamon, nutmeg… cardamom? White chocolate, maybe? And the smell of coffee, of course, but it was never the smell that I disliked, just the taste.  
  
She gave me an encouraging nod, despite my skepticism.  
  
I took a sip.  
  
I took another.  
  
I placed the glass on the table with a soft _thunk_ , a third missing. It was sweet without being overwhelming, rich and creamy, the different flavors blending in such a way to give me a suddenly vivid impression of hot summers around a campfire, the feeling of being enveloped by nature. A silky, chill stream, with just a hint of earthy bitterness reminding me that yes, this was in fact coffee I was drinking. Coffee I was _enjoying_.  
  
_“The hell is in this drink?.”_  
  
Other Robin beamed. “Organic, Fair Trade, wood fired coffee.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And moon milk.”  
  
I gave her a flat stare. Her teeth were obnoxiously white, her skin without blemish. I didn’t think she was even wearing makeup. I held that stare for a good ten seconds.  
  
She blinked first, breaking into cheerful, musical laughter. “I honestly have no idea what’s in it. It’s supposed to be some top secret recipe. It also comes in soy, almond, and rice milk. You got almond. You’re lactose intolerant, right?”  
  
I nodded, eyes narrowed. Somehow another third of my drink—my _coffee_ —had vanished. I wiped my lips, waiting for the punchline.  
  
She picked up her half of the conversation easily, without any awkwardness. “I have it shipped in special from Austin. I’m friends with the shop owner—it’s a local chain there, have you ever been?—but he still refuses to tell me what’s in it.”  
  
My eye twitched.  
  
Her smile only widened, not a trace of guile or malice anywhere to be seen. “I don’t mind sharing, if you’d like to have some more. It’s good, right?”  
  
My glass was empty, and I was tempted to pop the half-melted ice cubes in my mouth.  
  
“Fuck you, Dauntless. I understand why Armsmaster hates you now.”  
  
Her laugh was both good-natured and contagious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know the coworkers.


	22. Day 20.22 : Close Call

**Close Call**  
  
There was something strangely calming about being in complete silence. Not just ear-plugs quiet, but absolute, couldn’t-hear-anything-but-my-own-breathing, was-this-what-Grue’s-darkness-was-like absence of sound.  
  
A swift kick and a flick of a switch smashed open the door, some of the _crunch_ of impact just barely audible as it transmitted through the soles of my boots. Four beanbag rounds might have been excessive, but he looked big. In silence I gagged and zip-tied the man, then shot him again in the groin for good measure.  
  
The woman in the room might have been screaming. Trying to, anyway. I let the shotgun dangle from its sling and raised both hands, trying to calm her. It didn’t work much better with her than it had the last four. I made the universal symbol for _‘shhh’_. She was panting, eyes wide, looking for the exits, but at least she didn’t seem to be screaming anymore. I put my hands together in thanks, then backed out of the room.  
  
Rinse, repeat.  
  
Shadow Stalker, despite his misgivings, both kept watch and took down anyone who wandered too close. I gave him another thumbs up, and he nodded in acknowledgement. He wouldn’t have come with me if I hadn’t managed to hotfix one of the voiceboxes I’d brought along into only performing one half of its duties, but doing so exceptionally well. Instead of silencing my voice and replacing it with, well, my _voice_ , it just silenced _everything_ in a ten foot radius.  
  
Another door down. Zap, zap, zap went the tazer, but no sound, just the faint jolt against my hand as the gas cartridge launched. Smelled like burnt hair, but he was still twitching, so… zap. This time the woman ran past me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I saw Shadow Stalker intercept her outside my zone of silence, calm her down, probably explain that we were here to help. She nodded, hugging herself tightly. Good. It would be pointless if the women here got themselves hurt.  
  
This wasn’t part of the plan, of course. This was just supposed to be another reconnaissance run, tracking down storehouses, safehouses and other Empire places of interest.  
  
And then one of the ‘places of interest’ turned out to be a brothel.  
  
I didn’t think Shadow Stalker quite understood why I froze up. Why I, through tense breathing exercises, made it clear in no uncertain terms that I was going in with or without him. Maybe it was his relationship with Emmett—the teenage bully, not the adult one—that led him to put up no argument, instead only expressing his concerns about the safety of my plan.  
  
Four more rooms on this floor, the last two of which were empty but for deeply stained mattresses on the floor.  
  
I reviewed my mental map of the building as we’d scouted it from outside. Shadow Stalker gestured at his wrist, made a ‘hurry up’ motion. I looked to the stairs, then back at him. He held up two fingers, pointed at his wrist again. Two minutes. I could work with that.  
  
I nodded and ran up the stairs, using flight to boost my speed. I wanted to reveal as few of my powers as possible; had no identifying parts of my outfit that could be mistaken for a costume; covered my tech with baggy clothes, and generally tried to be as anonymous a hero as possible. Shadow Stalker was a known element, but he might have arguably just joined up with a new independent. The last thing either of us needed was more Protectorate oversight. It was hard enough as it was smuggling my tech harness off the Rig.  
  
Three rooms and an open common area. The gang members who had been in here were presumably among the piled-up unconscious bodies down below. First and second doors were storage and an empty office. Third door had a man hurriedly speaking into a cell phone, just coming to the realization that he couldn’t hear his own voice anymore.  
  
I didn’t really care if the men I found were Johns, gang members, or both, but the swastikas and other white supremacist paraphernalia did help me justify the broken ribs and intense bruising he was going to wake up with tomorrow. I had to admit it gave me a sick sense of catharsis, breaking down these twisted fucks into weeping, groaning, helpless sacks of shit. See how _they_ liked feeling like that. It didn’t take away the knot in my stomach, stop my heart from beating a million miles per hour, but it helped.  
  
Knowing that these were Empire bastards, and therefore couldn’t possibly share features with the ABB bastards who—it felt like it should have helped. It didn’t.  
  
The apparent manager went down as quietly as the others. I emptied his wallet for good measure.  
  
In relatively good spirits, feeling like some of the weight had been lifted off my shoulders, I took the stairs back down two at a time. The hall was empty, back door open. I assumed that was where Shadow Stalker had gone, so I made my way there silently—right, I wanted to call the cops, have them come pick up the tied up thugs. I was still fiddling with the voicebox and had just disabled the stealth field, preparing to use my other voice to make the call, when two things struck me at once.  
  
First, with the rush of sound came Shadow Stalker’s panicked _“_ — _incoming!”_  
  
And then there was a brief sense of a new parahuman entering my range moving—  
  
Ok, _three_ things struck me at once.  
  
And the third was Hookwolf.  
  
\---  
  
Of course I fucking ran.  
  
The Empire’s Badass Bitch, also just as obviously, chased me down.  
  
Her wolf-made-of-knives form was much bigger in person than in my imagination. It ate up the ground, shredding the rain-slicked streets of the alleyways I hurtled through, feet barely touching the ground. Shadow Stalker did his thing, and this time I was glad he vanished—I didn’t want him to get hurt.  
  
Granted, I didn’t want to get hurt either, but that was what the running was for.  
  
This was goddamned nightmarish. Literally a nightmare—the feeling of my legs not quite moving fast enough, of the terrifying monstrosity catching up no matter how hard I ran, of my imminent demise inches behind me praying I could wake up in time—except there was no waking up from this. Even trying to fly straight up had her leap thirty feet and swat me from the sky like a spiked volleyball.  
  
And yet, somehow I felt less viscerally afraid being chased down by a pissed off murder-blender than I did facing those totally normal men in the brothel. Something to unpack with the therapist later, test out that doctor-patient confidentiality.  
  
Assuming I lived that long.  
  
I smelt ozone and hot metal. My kinetic shields were getting overloaded by the repeated claw swipes that sent me tumbling down the street ass over teakettle, forcing me to rely on flight to regain my footing and keep desperately scrabbling away before she could pin me down like a rat. Goddamnit, I wished I had my _murdercycle_.  
  
My heart sank as I realized she was faster than me.  
  
With a _fzz-_ POP and a _crunch_ , her metallic jaws closed on my left leg. Asphalt tore at my clothes as she dragged me backwards, deeper into her many-knived grasp.  
  
Before I could even make the conscious decision, I was hitting the second emergency release on my tech harness.  
  
In a flash of white and violent noise, everything exploded.  
  
\---  
  
“I can’t keep doing this.”  
  
The voice was muffled, my eyes blurry and spotted with lurid magenta splotches. Maybe it was the short, but that gathered kinetic energy was only supposed to go _outward_ , and I felt like a tenderized steak. Thank fuck for Aegis. I owed her a steak or something. Heh. Steak on the brain. Maybe it was my body’s way of telling me I needed protein.  
  
Whoops. I thought I was concussed again.  
  
Shadow Stalker shifted my weight on his back, a fireman’s carry. It was a little disorienting, but I was still trying to process speech. I blinked, worked my jaw. “Wha?” I asked, mouth feeling mushy.  
  
He turned his head to look at me, or perhaps he was checking the alleyway for potential threats.  
  
“I said I’m out. I’m done. You can get yourself killed on your own.”  
  
I didn’t say anything to that.  
  
What could you say when _Shadow Stalker_ accused you of being reckless?  
  
And worse yet, had a point?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kittius noted while cleaning up the chapter, "At this point, Astrid would tell you you're pushing yourself too hard and taking too many risks. Chris, you need to rethink your life."


	23. Day 21.23 : Lives, Lies and Tinkertech

**Lives, Lies and Tinkertech**  
  
The second time we met, it was at the Rig.  
  
Caduceus recognized me, but didn’t meet my eyes. Armsmaster looked between us, but didn’t say anything. Wield didn’t seem to notice, reading over paperwork someone had written up. We all sat in awkward silence while he scanned through it all once, twice. Lawyer’s gonna lawyer. I didn’t even know what was in that document, to be honest. I knew the lie, but not the specifics.  
  
Several uncomfortable minutes later—pretty sure Armsmaster spent them Tinkering in her heads-up display—Wield closed the folder, pushed it forward on the table, and joined his hands together in front of him, every movement professional and sharp. He cleared his throat. Everyone turned to look at him.  
  
“Let me know if I understood this correctly,” he said, clean diction and measured prosody, almost metronomic. His voice had layers to it, attention and concern and subtones of threat saying ‘don’t fuck with me’ in a way that forced you to listen closely, read between the lines. Caduceus didn’t seem fazed, but seemed removed from it all, like he wasn’t entirely present.  
  
“You want to duplicate Caduceus’ power with Tinkertech.”  
  
“The observable parts,” I interjected, careful to make that point. If he knew I could copy it in its entirety… I didn’t know what excuse he’d come up with to say no, but if he did, I would have to honor it. Probably. Armsmaster and Wield glanced my way with the interruption, but neither seemed to grasp why I clarified that. It wasn’t for them anyway. Copying ‘only’ the healing bits might put Caduceus at ease. I meant to keep going, but Armsmaster made a small gesture with one hand—under the table so only I could see—and I stopped.  
  
Wield continued, “You’re aware of how rare his abilities are? There are less than twenty capes in North America who can claim to grant any form of healing, and most are minor regeneration, temporary, or highly conditional.”  
  
Armsmaster nodded. “All the more reason to increase that number. The value in Endbringer battles alone would be inestimable.” That was a lie. I’d seen her do the calculations. I let it go, along with the others.  
  
“Valuable.” Wield jumped on that word, digging it in like a knife. “Caduceus does not charge for his healing. Would the Protectorate?”  
  
I glanced at Armsmaster. I honestly hadn’t thought about it.  
  
“No,” she said with confidence. Well, that answered that. Probably for the best. I had no interest in that Panacea lifestyle.  
  
I could practically see the gears turning in Wield’s head, calculations and cost-benefit analyses and public relations boons. Both I and Caduceus apparently lost interest in the conversation at this point, as the lawyer, the Protectorate leader and the quiet man from Legal sitting in the corner started talking brass tacks. Words were thrown around like ‘stipends’ and ‘operational costs’ and ‘optics’ and ‘reciprocal access’, but I just leaned back and tried to find literally anything else to focus on.  
  
Caduceus met my eyes, then, probably seeking the same escape. Then his gaze drifted down for a moment before jumping back up. It wasn’t quite guilt I saw in his face, but something close to it, perhaps.  
  
_“It’s ok,”_ I said quietly to him, more mouthing the words than saying them. I even tried to give him a small smile. _“I understand.”_  
  
He just pursed his lips, looking oddly like his adopted father then. After a moment, he nodded in acknowledgement.  
  
It took the better part of an hour for Armsmaster, Wield, and the unnamed PRT paper-pusher to hash out the details while Caduceus and I tried not to die of boredom. I started to bounce my leg, winced, stopped. Switched to the other leg. I wondered if he got the urge to Tinker like I did. I supposed I’d find out.  
  
In the end, pending further review from Legal, I was going to get Caduceus’s power. In exchange, New Wave got a retainer, access to healing tech I made—as though I’d refuse—and I had to make something small and defensively-oriented for the squishy white mage. Could probably cobble together a short-term force-field generator like my kinetic redistribution rig… Ideas filled my head as soon as the idea was thrown out there, so all I had to do was nod when it was run by me for approval. Nice of Armsmaster to ask, at least. Caduceus didn’t seem to warrant that much from his father.  
  
The important thing was, I’d soon have access to one of the most versatile powers in all of Worm.  
  
The future was looking brighter.  
  
\---  
  
Of course, that involved actually spending time with Caduceus. And since we only had so many sick and injured people at the Rig, I had to take the whole ‘scanning’ pretense on the road.  
  
I never liked hospitals. The smell of antiseptic and despair, the nurses looking alternately bored and harried, the air of quiet desperation that, thankfully, Caduceus seemed to clear up just by his presence. His power was good like that, even if his bedside manner was as bad as reported. Might as well have been filing taxes for all the personal involvement he had in the proceedings.  
  
I hovered in the background, waving around sensors like talismans to the god of SCIENCE! Nobody paid me too much mind, what with their wounds and diseases—many fatal, or at least critical—being miraculously cured with one impatient, long-suffering touch from their indifferent lord and savior.  
  
Every once in a while I tested out my own fraction of his power, sneaking in an accidental skin-on-skin contact as I held a ‘scanner’ to a patient’s broken arm or cancer-brittle skin. It was fuzzy, a sixth sense, almost like proprioception of a limb I didn’t have. I could _almost_ see the cells repair themselves, get the vague gist of what his power was doing. I didn’t try to interfere, of course. I imagined it would get clearer with time and repeated exposure.  
  
Overall it was mind-numbing. I never thought I’d get inured to the sight of grievous wounds.  
  
Caduceus was a machine, but the nurses were careful to insist he take breaks, bless them.  
  
The rooftop was just like I remembered it. We both lit up in semi-awkward silence.  
  
He broke it first. “So, how goes the… scanning…?”  
  
“It, uh, it goes. Got some… good data.”  
  
I wasn’t sure who felt more awkward. What the hell could I talk about? Ask him about Invictus, his hilariously ironically named sibling/incestuous crush? Bring up his dad, and how he spent the entire legal negotiations without so much as asking Caduceus his opinion on the use of his power? Discuss the true nature of my power and send him into cardiac arrest when he realized I knew the full extent of his ‘healing’?  
  
“You’re limping,” he said, apropos of nothing. It took me a second to… oh. Shit. I thought I’d hid that better.  
  
“No big deal,” I said, waving him off. “Training accident.”  
  
He held out his hand, the one not holding his cigarette. The wind on top of the building whipped around his hood, briefly covering his eyes before he pulled it back. He said the words I’d heard a hundred times just that morning.  
  
A part of me knew that Aegis’s power would take care of my injuries eventually. Probably faster than normal.  
  
Another, traitorous part of me wondered if he’d take the opportunity while healing me to… deal with my other problem. Problems.  
  
Before I realized it, I’d nodded and reached for his hand.  
  
I felt… tingly.  
  
He frowned, and my heart sank. “You know you’ve got bits of metal in you?”  
  
I had the odd sensation of slivers of shattered Hookwolf passing through my skin, like popping the weirdest pimple. The shards slipped down my pant leg, tinkling on the cement.  
  
The temptation to lie was there, but his hand was still on mine. He could tell.  
  
Nevertheless, I shrugged. “Accidents happen.” I tried not to remember the panic. I tried not to let my heart pound with recalled terror. I tried. I didn’t think I succeeded.  
  
At some point he withdrew his hand. I flexed my leg, feeling none of the slight tugging sensation I’d had before. Better than new. No… other changes, unfortunately. I tried not to feel disappointed.  
  
“Tinker accidents,” he not-quite-asked, raising one eyebrow skeptically.  
  
“Accidents,” I not-quite-confirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now Hotswap is getting one of the most broken powers in Worm. Surely only good will come of this.


	24. Day 22.24 : A New Challenger

**A New Challenger**  
  
For a few weeks in 2013, two years in this world’s future, I was briefly obsessed with the game “Papers, Please.” Something about ruthlessly and efficiently scanning passports and other documents to allow entry or ban folks of varied backgrounds and levels of sympathy really spoke to the heartless automaton buried deep within my psyche.  
  
I was the sort of person who kept a religiously clean inbox. And archived emails from account to account like a digital packrat, like a slightly less disturbing and slightly more effective episode of Hoarders.  
  
So when I saw an email that wasn’t paperwork, status updates, bullshitting from the Tinkertech Approval Board about how my rare earth magnets doped with selenium and strychnine were caught up in customs, I opened it eagerly. If nothing else I’d get to submit it as a phishing request and laugh as all the folks in Marketing got caught by the internal idiot-checkers in IT every quarter.  
  
Why yes I _had_ exceeded my daily permitted allotment of Tinkering hours. As much as I’d agreed to the compromise at the time, that whole Noctis thing meant I ended up with a lot of time to kill.  
  
I nearly choked on my bland granola and protein food substitute—courtesy of Armsmaster’s mini-fridge—when I saw the sender at the top of the email. I scanned through the missive, nay, the _challenge_ with something between morbid curiosity and childish amusement.  
  
Leet was calling me out.  
  
The video was short and sweet, and delivered with surprisingly good production value and visual effects. A squeaky, acne-scarred, scrawny slip of a domino-masked nerd highlighting clips of my disastrous first public patrol, adding Mean Girls commentary and throwing out memes I’d either long forgotten or never experienced thanks to alternate universe shenanigans. There were text overlays on still frames, hyper-pixelated close-ups of my expression, canned laugh tracks, the works.  
  
I forgot the actual words, but the challenge itself—mentioned in the video, but present in the email itself—basically consisted of the words “You. Me. Let’s dance.”  
  
The countdown clock to my next Tinkering session still read eight hours. I had some time to kill.  
  
I penned my reply and sent it into the ether.  
  
She responded immediately. A link to an encrypted chat app with a single use code. Sure, why not.  
  
Her avatar was a pixelated 8-bit Mario face. Lots of crossplay, I imagined. I actually needed to check out some of her videos sometimes. Surely there was a “best hits” or “best epic fails” video compilation out there somewhere.  


> TehRealL33t: h3y, you actually r3spond3d!  
>    
>  Anon25455: Better than filling out TPS reports.  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: sucks to b3 you, pap3rpush3r  
>    
>  Anon25455: It’s a living. So this challenge. What’s in it for me?  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: t3sting your3 m3ttl3 against a sup3rior tink3r not do it for ya?  
>    
>  Anon25455: You really want to play that game?  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: at l3ast my stuff only fails S0M3 of t3h tim3, b3tch  
>    
>  Anon25455: Still not seeing why I shouldn’t just let you look the fool for failing to get a player 2 to answer your call.  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: n3rd cr3d not 3nough?  
>    
>  Anon25455: I’m actively nearing a stroke trying to read your speech impediment. I don’t know if I could bear to be in the same room with you if you actually talked like that. Would my virginity grow back?  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: k3k  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: ok, fine. it’s a prestige thing, a ‘test the new tinker in town’ thing, it’d be great ratings, and honestly I kind of feel bad for your introduction  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: i know how much it sucks when your tech fails publically

Heh. She really would. As embarrassing as it was, though—the losing control, not the failed landing, even if that did bruise my ego a bit, along with my everything else—it did serve a purpose. It kept me out of the limelight. It gave me more time to prepare, to let people think I was still weak. Fighting the nerd duo would be the opposite of that.  
  
The time I spent considering that must have been long enough for her to guess some of my thoughts on the challenge.  


> TehRealL33t: ok, big guns  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: you know tinkers get inspired from other tinkers, right  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: you do this, we have a workshop session  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: swap notes, bounce ideas  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: a genuine q&a

I wasn’t interested in getting Leet’s power (good god that’d be poisonous for my tech) but she must have had a workshop… and maybe some ideas I could steal.  


> TehRealL33t: in and out in an hour, promise

I glanced at the clock, the slowly ticking timer.  


> TehRealL33t: ...we'll give you final cut?  
>    
>  Anon25455: I’m in.  
>    
>  TehRealL33t: w00t!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good part of having written this ahead of time is when people predict things—like the internet making memes about Hotswap's debut—I can say with full confidence that I'd already written that and didn't add it in after it was suggested.
> 
> The bad part is having to resist the urge to spoil everything, constantly.


	25. Day 22.25 : Yeet vs Leet

**Yeet vs Leet**  
  
Even after the Road Hog incident, I was still allowed off the Rig/outside the PRTHQ. Regulations. Couldn’t keep me under house arrest unless I gave them good reason, and if they’d tried I’d be calling up Dragon to join the Guild in a heartbeat.  
  
The trickier part was bringing my tech harness with me. _Technically_ since it was built with Protectorate materials, on Protectorate time, and under Protectorate contract, they were perfectly within their rights to tell me I couldn’t take it off site unless I was on patrol.  
  
Maybe it would’ve been fine if they actually knew I was taking it. Maybe they would’ve just turned a blind eye, assumed I was doing some unlicensed patrolling, like I had been. Leet’s video hadn’t been made public yet; they had no reason to think I was going to do something stupid. More stupid. Which I was.  
  
Maybe I didn’t have to keep burying the bulkier parts of my harness in a duffel bag full of laundry—the poor survivors of my first week as a woman placed deliberately on top—and, for good measure, a box of tampons. But damn if the guy at the light bridge never gave it a second glance before waving me across.  
  
A lengthy cab ride later, and I was just down the street from an abandoned strip mall on the outskirts of town. I had to give it to Minuteman; the ability to change my clothing on a whim made it incredibly easy to cover my hair and face as I walked the last block. Not that there was a soul in sight, close to three in the morning. Not having to sleep was incredibly convenient. And there was something about being able to literally shit nukes—that was a fun yet harrowing day in power testing—that made me feel a little more safe walking by myself with a duffel bag in the middle of the night.  
  
Slipping around behind the shops, weaving between an abandoned car and a graffiti-covered dumpster, my heart pounding despite myself, I was relieved to see the two women waiting for me in casual clothes. The smaller one was obviously Leet, what with the bad posture and Evangelion sweatshirt, and the more toned one with all the poise and a warm, resounding voice who greeted me was clearly Uber. Between the two of them they had a face and a voice for radio, respectively.  
  
Thanks to the last week, between my day in isolation and then saving my third charge each day, I could now sense them at 20 feet. Direction, distance, even tell which one was which, although my power sense still communicated via itching and vague, sourceless impressions. Starting to reach the point of diminishing returns, there, I thought.  
  
The bigger one interrupted my thoughts. “So you’re Yeet?”  
  
I gave her a flat look. “Apparently.” Fucking PHO nicknames. Not that I was particularly fond of 'Hotswap', even if it did obscure my true powers. My original choice had been vetoed by Image early on, and if I thought Hotswap was needlessly sexualizing, then you should’ve seen some of the other choices I shot down.  
  
“Nice to meet you, and thanks for agreeing to join us! I’m Uber; you’ve spoken with Leet.”  
  
In person the latter wasn’t quite as gangly and awkward as the videos I’d skimmed through implied, despite the production value. Some amount of kayfabe, I wondered? Part of their schtick, playing off one another?  
  
They had decent handshakes. No visible tech, but who knew with Tinkers.  
  
Uber kept up a steady stream of small talk as she led us through a back door into the cavernous, hollowed out husk of an electronics shop, slain by a dwindling economy and shifting jobs. In the center, surrounded by rows of cardboard cutouts bearing pixelated, cartoonish audience members, was a well-lit boxing ring.  
  
Oh boy.  
  
Smoothly transitioning into an explanation of the glories of the 1987 NES classic “Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out!!”, Uber let me change in a small room that might have once been a manager’s office, keeping a rolling dialogue through the door as I slipped on my harness over my morphed everarmor. She explained the rules: basic boxing stuff, with only a few changes to account for the Tinkertech she assumed (correctly) that I was wearing and what Leet (almost certainly) was using. Three rounds, a health bar added in post, keep the gloves above the belt, video link would be sent to the anonymous chat app before posting for comments and edits, yadda yadda I wanted to get to _punching_.  
  
It took some last-minute adjustments—thank god for Kid Win’s field-modification expertise and Armsmaster’s tool-less manipulation—to enable me to swap the kinetic field from absorption to release almost instantaneously, but by the time the crowd was animated—slowly bouncing up and down on unseen servos—and the cameras were hot, I was sweating buckets and grinning ear to ear.  
  
Maybe some of that was the Shards’ CONFLICT drive leaking through the half dozen capes’ worth of powers. Maybe it was the thrill of a sparring match in full Tinker gear. Maybe it was the chance to prove the strength of my work after an (only somewhat deliberately) lackluster initial showing. Maybe I just wanted to beat up Leet for their early GTA video. Hell, maybe it was nostalgia, seeing Leet in a semi-transparent hard-light get up of 8-bit Mike Tyson.  
  
Regardless, when the bell rang and the [music started](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZ-LoqRAHLg), I was off like a shot, swinging, slipping and rolling under heavily-telegraphed punches. Leet seemed surprised at first, or maybe she was just testing me, seeing how I’d react, learning my timing. With a flick of a finger and a kick off the ground, I was airborne, gloved hand rising over a hasty block to smash into her padded headgear, sending her reeling against the ropes.  
  
My smile might have been a bit feral, and I paced back and forth like a predatory beast in the center of the ring as she recovered.  
  
For once, I didn’t feel small anymore. Or, maybe, I just didn’t _care_ I was small. After all, Little Mac was tiny compared to his opponents, and he still kicked all kinds of ass.  
  
Uber stalked around us in referee gear, sworn to impartiality, ready to count down if Leet fell.  
  
Instead she pulled herself off the ropes, nervous smile barely visible behind the hard-light disguise. This time she was far faster, hurling punches that grazed my force field, sending warning lights in my heads up display. She was definitely hitting harder than she had any right to, with her spindly frame. Not that I was one to talk.  
  
The first bell caught me by surprise. I stopped mid-swing, fist inches from Leet’s unguarded kidneys, and returned to my corner to drink some desperately-needed water and catch my breath.  
  
Second round went much like the first, with me getting in a few hits, depleting the stored up kinetic energy from my blocks, watching the status markers out of the corner of my eye. Still within tolerances—I’d managed to repair and improve the limits of my tech after my run-in with Hookwolf—but showing some wear and tear. I’d only been Tinkering for a few weeks, and with a full suite of powers only half that long. Unlike my tech, though, I was wearing down. Boxing was hard, and three minutes felt like an eternity even in excellent physical shape, which I most certainly was _not_ , Aegis’s power be damned.  
  
Thankfully, Leet was in the same boat. Whatever tech was letting her tank punches and hit like a train couldn’t help her catch her breath or keep from wheezing during the second break between rounds. I caught myself grinning like a loon between gasps, making eye contact with her across the ring as Uber wiped her face with a towel and spritzed water in her mouth.  
  
She was grinning too, despite her exhaustion.  
  
Although perhaps I should have noticed the tinge of desperation in her eyes.  
  
When the bell rang out and I sprung to my feet, I nearly lost my balance as there was a flicker in the lights and something _fizzled_. My heads up display went dark, my harness felt suddenly hot, and I could smell ozone. I was just about to call a time out, disappointed and frustrated, when I saw the slightly glitchy 8-bit fist swinging for my face.  
  
I _slammed_ against the ropes, barely holding on, head spinning. She hadn’t hit as hard as she had before—her hard-light costume was spasming, flickering in and out—but she had a look of grim determination on her face that made it clear she wasn’t going to let me back out.  
  
Uber was by my side, slapping the canvas. I struggled to my feet, and was struck with a sudden doubt.  
  
That wasn’t a glitch. My tech had been _sabotaged_.  
  
Leet was playing dirty.  
  
Her smug grin at my expression only confirmed my suspicion. As soon as my gloves went up and the counting stopped, she was swinging wildly, only the reflexes drilled into me by my sparring with Armsmaster saving me from an undignified pummeling. Even then I reeled as a punch grazed my face, smashing my visor into my nose and filling my vision with red.  
  
So she wanted to cheat?  
  
Fuck her. I could cheat too.  
  
The pain was dull. I felt adrenaline course through my system at the outrage, rushing away fatigue. I was light on my feet, only staying on the ground by deliberate choice, Aegis’s flight keeping my balance even as I dodged nearly backwards beneath a wide hook. More bizarrely, I realized I could still _sense_ her, despite my obstructed vision, the blood spilling in my eyes. A tiny part of Aegis's power doing something strange, not enough to see her punches through my skin, but enough to tell when they were inbound.  
  
I let myself stagger back against the ropes, inviting her in to finish the fight.  
  
The second she stepped forward, I dropped into a crouch with inhuman speed, ducking beneath her powerful punch that I sensed might have sent me flying clear out of the ring.  
  
Then I swung up, right for the chin, a fierce [battle cry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-ZoZ1y1onQ) on my lips.  
  
Leet crumpled like a wet paper bag, flickering disguise taking the pose of a fallen Mike Tyson. Even programmed her inevitable defeat, just in case her gambit failed.  
  
A ten count. Victory. The taste of blood on my lips from a broken nose, cuts on my forehead and cheek from where the visor smashed into my face. I wiped my eyes clean, smearing blood on my arm, the odd sixth sense fading quickly.  
  
Uber helped her friend up, groggy and possibly concussed. She seemed a little disappointed, but not upset. I mean, the two of them got what they were hoping for: a _hell_ of a fight.  
  
Speaking of which, the music had stopped. I glanced for the Snitch, then gave it a weary thumbs up, baring my teeth in a bloody, victorious smile.  
  
Cut scene, roll credits. Yeet vs Leet, battle of the Tinkers; I’d proved the victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote Kittius: "Chris is pretty bloodthirsty, huh? I'm sure that isn't a sign of any emotional issues that haven't been dealt with, or anything."
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to ParticularlyLargeBear for adjustments to Aegis's adaptations.


	26. Day 22.26 : Spoils

**Spoils**  
  
It took me a little while to come down from my victory high.  
  
The knowledge that my gear was toast was waiting for me when I did, like sharp rocks at the bottom of a waterfall.  
  
“What did you do?” was my first question as a badly-beaten Leet slumped into a bean-bag chair across from my own, Uber busy breaking down the stage and ring behind us.  
  
“Pimp-slapped your gear,” she slurred out, eyes slightly unfocused. This wasn’t going to be the most productive of Q&A sessions. Maybe I shouldn’t have hit her so hard.  
  
Maybe she shouldn’t have been a cheating little shit.  
  
“Explain.” The sharpness of my tone must have cut through some of the fog, because she shook her head, wincing at the movement. Her eyes were a bit more clear.  
  
“Penetrative Electromagnetic Pulse. Pee-Eee-Emm-Pee. It breaks through most hardening unless you design specifically for it, and even then it still puts most electricity-based tech on the fritz.” She grinned a little ruefully, a little bitterly. “I’ve got a talent for spotting weaknesses in Tinkertech. Kind of have to.”  
  
I frowned. “You’ve set me back weeks.”  
  
Her expression darkened. “Cry some more, bitch.”  
  
I supposed I could see where she was coming from, but I was still _pissed_. This was intended to be a diversion, some light entertainment beating up nerds, not a major obstacle in my path to power. I still wanted to make power armor this year, goddamnit.  
  
“Tell me how to undo the damage.” I supposed that was a sort of Q&A. And as long as I didn’t let her put her poisoned little hands on my gear—more than she already had—maybe I could avoid some of the drawbacks of her power hating her. I _definitely_ wasn’t going to let my power grab anything from her.  
  
By the time she finished explaining the degree to which I’d have to tear out and replace components in my harness—from hard won experience—I was seriously facing the decision of whether or not to start from scratch, and Uber had finished breaking down the set and started editing the video. I did fill a notebook with some other ideas while we were talking, though—not only replacements, but concepts and sketches for new modules, improvements, and PEMP-hardening, in case someone else got the same bright idea.  
  
Still, my mood had soured significantly. I had no patience to watch the video more than once. Yes, it played up Leet’s hits a bit more, made it look like my tech had failed—a little, not as bad as in reality—and generally framed me as a plucky underdog against a more experienced Tinker—which was not entirely untrue—but they did grant me the credit for victory and even added a voice-over _“Shoryuken!”_ over my somewhat strained screech at the end of the fight. The health bars and impact highlights were pretty solid, too.  
  
I left their temporary lair grumpy, carrying a duffel bag full of junk, and not looking forward to all the work I had just given myself.  
  
Still, I consoled myself, it could’ve been worse.  
  
\---  
  
Naturally, things got worse.  
  
I was called into a meeting with the Director almost the instant that the video dropped. The wheels of the PR machine turned quickly, it seemed.  
  
“Explain yourself,” Piggot began without preamble.  
  
I’d planned a little of what I was going to say, filled with Tinker’s remorse after dropping my gear off at the lab. I figured it would be more productive to simply own up to my mistakes than try to claim any ulterior, altruistic motives.  
  
“I was reckless, sir.” His eyebrow arched at the unexpected courtesy. “I made a bad decision and paid for it with the wrecking of my tech harness. I did win, but I lost, too.”  
  
He asked questions. Figured out timing, circumstances.  
  
“Do you know what you should have done when you arranged a meeting with two supervillains?”  
  
“Brought in the Protectorate and laid in ambush, sir.”  
  
He seemed slightly mollified that I acknowledged that, at least. “And will you do that if this sort of situation arises again?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” I lied.  
  
“I’m assigning you daily meetings with Image and Legal to ensure you make the right choice the next time. These meetings are _mandatory_.” There was no wriggle room in his tone. I failed to suppress a frown, but nodded.  
  
He leaned back, joined his hands together over his stomach, inspecting me like Armsmaster eyed a faulty component. “There is still the matter of punishment for your recklessness.”  
  
I fixed her with a concerned look. As if the destruction of my gear wasn’t punishment enough?  
  
“I know better than to try to cut off your access to Tinkering.” Hey, I brought in Road Hog, didn’t I? “I will have to find some other way of enforcing discipline.”  
  
Well if that wasn’t fucking ominous.  
  
\---  
  
I didn’t know what he meant until I found Kid Win crying in her lab.  
  
She quickly wiped her cheeks when I knocked on the open door, fixing me with a red-rimmed, despairing look.  
  
I was somewhat at a loss. “What happened?”  
  
Her voice was thick, unsteady. “All of my Tinkertech in review was put on hold. Along with all of my material requests. And then the Youth Guard rep told me they’re going to start enforcing maximum weekly lab hours.”  
  
It took me a moment to connect the dots. “ _Piggot_.”  
  
She sniffed again, not even listening. “My designs are being re-reviewed for safety compliance. They’re going to fail, and it’s going to be that much harder to build my next designs and get _them_ approved, and… there’s nothing I can do. They might even have me disassemble some of my current gear! And even knowing my specialty now, I’m still not a good enough Tinker to push back against it...” Her face twisted in anguish.  
  
“Hey. _Hey_.” Kid Win looked up again, giving me that kicked puppy look. I felt a surge of anger rising like heat in my gut. “No, fuck that. It’s not your fault. It’s Piggot, that son of a bitch. You didn’t do anything wrong, but you’re being punished for _my_ fuckup.” I touched her shoulder, gentle despite my fury. She wiped her eyes again, looking at me, different emotions flashing on her face. I picked my hand up like I had touched a hot stove—she was upset, but she was also clearly mad at me, at least in part. I—no. It was Piggot’s fault. Collective punishment was _bullshit_.  
  
Then the brief flash of frustration shifted back to despair. “No, it’s… probably not you. Of course they’d block my stuff. I’m the crappiest Tinker in Brockton Bay. It’d be a waste of budget for _me_ to Tinker.”  
  
“No! It’s not you, it’s...” I resisted the urge to give her a hug, instead shaking my head. “I’ll do what I can,” I promised.  
  
\---  
  
I had to leave after that, seething rage banking in my stomach like a furnace. I wanted to _break_ something.  
  
I wanted to punch Leet in the face again, for making the stupid challenge that got me into this mess.  
  
I wanted to beat myself up for being stupid enough to accept. Poor Kid. And my poor gear!  
  
Most of all I was furious at Piggot, the petty motherfucker. Abusing his power to punish people who didn’t even do anything wrong, just to spite me. Typical asshole; give them any measure of authority and they’d run roughshod over anyone they can, just because they can. Putting those troublesome, uncooperative parahumans in their place. I _seethed_ , heat roiling in my body at the injustice of it all.  
  
Without realizing it, I returned to my safe place.  
  
Colleen had her back to the door, leaning over her workbench, the work light casting stark shadows over the lab. I recognized the outlines of my tech harness on the work surface in front of her. I winced to see it again—doubly so for imagining her thoughts, seeing it in that state.  
  
I hesitated. My stomach flip-flopped before settling somewhere right under my throat. I cleared my throat. “Hey.”  
  
She gently set down a fine-tipped screwdriver, pivoted in her seat and faced me. Her hands were clasped together under her chin, and her lips were set in a hard line.  
  
“I’m not angry, Chris”— _oh, don’t you say it, don’t you_ _fucking_ —”I’m disappointed.”  
  
God _damnit_ Armsmaster.  
  
“Piggot got you too,” I replied, not quite a question. Fucking typical. Because kicking a child wasn’t enough.  
  
Colleen’s voice was sharp, but level. I’d never heard her raise her voice in her lab, and today seemed no exception. “Your stunt not only cut my Tinker budget—further than it already had been since you joined—but interrupted highly important projects that could help prevent or even fight off Endbringers.”  
  
I scowled. “My ‘stunt’ didn’t do that. Piggot did.”  
  
“ _Think_ , Chris.” Ok, maybe I _was_ going to hear her raise her voice today. “Did you ever stop to consider the ramifications? When you went alone into Merchant territory, attacked a Tinker in his own lair, and scrambled your brains in a Tinker fugue, just out of spite? When you agreed to fight another villainous Tinker on their terms, then broadcast the damn thing for all the world to see, breaking tens of thousands of dollars of equipment in the process? Are you _dense_? Do you think your actions are above consequences?”  
  
She stood, then, suddenly looming above me, expression dark and thunderous. I felt the heat banking in my body suddenly focus into my palms, begging to be given shape as a weapon, a blast. I squashed it, hard, clenching my hands into fists to bury the rage. This was Armsmaster. This was Colleen. She was my friend and mentor, and for all her faults she was a goddamn _hero_.  
  
And yet her voice was deafening, inches from my face. “Do you have anything to say for yourself? Did you even learn anything from all of this?” I’d never seen such an expression of fierce intensity from her before. It was more than a little intimidating... which just raised my hackles further.  
  
My mind raced, tried to find excuses, found none. Piggot was still a son of a bitch, but he did what he did to punish me—albeit indirectly—for my disobedience. For not being a team player. For being selfish. But I’d be damned if I backed down now.  
  
“I get it!” I shouted back, my voice higher pitched than hers, infuriatingly screechy. “I made mistakes! But you don’t have to treat me like a fucking child!”  
  
She roared, _“Then stop acting like one!”_  
  
I snapped.  
  
I leapt up into the air until my face was above hers, not letting her fucking loom over me anymore, jabbing my finger into her chest.  
  
"Fuck you, Colleen! I fucked up, I know! But I don’t need that patronizing bullshit from you, ok? Want me to fix it? I will! But get _off my fucking ass_!"  
  
Her eyes were wide, staring me down. Anger? Fear? I couldn’t read it. I didn’t care.  
  
I spun around, heading towards the door. Needed to move, needed to be anywhere but here.  
  
But before I left the lab I turned and spat out, “—And your fucking nanothorns won’t do shit against Leviathan anyway!”  
  
It’s hard to slam a two foot thick blast door, but I managed somehow.  
  
\---  
  
Piggot was still in his office.  
  
I stormed past his administrative assistant, a sharp word and gesture from Piggot as I shoved the door open the only thing saving me from a containment foam prison. I slammed down into the chair in front of him, breathing heavily, body aching, skin hot.  
  
I took a labored breath and, in as even a tone as I could manage, said, “You made your point.”  
  
He lowered his hand from where he’d held his assistant at bay, fixed me with a hard look. One that stared down Nilbog, that kept a herd of cats in line for years in the steaming shithole that was Brockton Bay.  
  
“Oh?” was his only response.  
  
“You tried the carrot, after Road Hog. All that team-building, getting me invested. Now it’s the stick. You know you can’t punish me directly so you’re hitting me where it hurts.” I clenched my fists so hard the nails cut into my palm. “My teammates.”  
  
He leaned back, stare not lessening one iota, hands clasped in front of him. Expectant.  
  
“I want their budgets restored, tech queues resumed, materials delivered.”  
  
Piggot said nothing, waiting.  
  
“In return, I’ll… I’ll...”  
  
My steam faltered, words not coming. I suddenly felt a decade older, weary, exhausted. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, let it out through gritted teeth.  
  
What finally came out was, “What do you want?”  
  
He smiled. It wasn’t a smug, satisfied grin—I might have fed him his teeth for that, as I was _not_ in the mood—but it was a small, controlled smile nonetheless. If I didn’t know better I’d thought he actually looked proud of me.  
  
When he did speak, his voice was even, calm.  
  
“Let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey glory-master, good to know you're not completely canon-noncompliant.
> 
> Piggot's management methods leave something to be desired, but it got results. This time. And it was a close call. Probably a good idea they hadn't given Chris any crazy powerful abilities by this point.


	27. Day 24.27 : Demands

**Demands**  
  
God was I sick of talking.  
  
Somehow I’d managed to last more than three weeks in the Protectorate without actually learning how to work the Console. And now, with my tech busted, Caduceus’s shield generator taking priority, and hours of negotiations with Director Piggot, I found myself in costume but without any Tinkertech, sitting in the PRTHQ, directing traffic.  
  
“Console, this is Clockblocker with Panorama, checking in. At Lamar and Oak, all quiet. Ten four.”  
  
“Gotcha, Clock.” I jotted down the note in the records, marking their location on the map on one of the screens surrounding me. Right on schedule, no deviations. Good kids.  
  
At least I didn’t have to walk everywhere anymore. After storming through the Rig yesterday, it was assumed I’d built a flight belt or something and already nobody batted an eyelash to see me floating a foot off the ground. The ones who knew my actual power—the Protectorate, Kid Win, Shadow Stalker—didn’t really ask where I’d gotten that ability from. The Think Tank got excited, but they got excited if I told them I had a particularly large dump that morning, furiously conferring on what that deuce could mean for my long-term power growth.  
  
“The correct protocol would be ‘copy’,” Carla offered helpfully from the seat beside me. Schooled by a Ward, but hey, she had experience. And the manual open beside her. At least one of the concessions I’d wrangled from Piggot was the _permission_ to accrue more charges of an actual Brute power from her. Fucking _finally_.  
  
I gave her a thin smile. “Copy, Aegis.”  
  
She was quiet again, doing her homework, while I worked on the shield emitter. Had to be a bubble, since I didn’t want to make Caduceus carry repeaters, but the challenge was in preparing a battery sufficiently potent to project a tensor field for long enough to be useful while not making it too volatile to keep close to the body for extended periods. Nobody wanted an exploding belt buckle.  
  
To my credit, I only jumped a little when Carla tapped me on the shoulder. “Pay attention, they’ve just checked in again.”  
  
I scrambled for the send button, catching the clock and seeing thirty minutes had vanished in an eyeblink. Shit.  
  
“Clock, Console, please repeat.” A thought. “Ten nine.”  
  
“You’re clipping again,” Carla hurriedly whispered beside me. Fuck. This was harder than I’d anticipated. I felt a flush of embarrassment, tried not to let it show in my voice.  
  
Thankfully it was just a standard check-in. “Copy Console, Clockblocker and Panorama, checking in. Payton and Duval, ten four.”  
  
“Copy, Clock.” I made sure to hold the button a bit before and after sending.  
  
Carla nodded, smiling. Whew.  
  
And then the police line burst into life. Aegis quickly took over, taking the details down, then opening another channel. Armsmaster and Minuteman were almost about to start their shift, so she directed them to intervene. Empire activity. I kept quiet, trying to follow the protocol. Talking to the police made me nervous, but both Console and Dispatch were succinct, to-the-point, professional. A PRT agent joined the line as well, since the police were involved.  
  
I could have kept Tinkering, but I listened in instead, trying to follow the action as it was reported play-by-play.  
  
Aegis kept her cool, relaying with the aid of the PRT agent between police and Protectorate, like it was no big deal. I supposed to her it wasn’t; just another day in that cape life.  
  
Even when Armsmaster and Minuteman confirmed the presence of Empire capes out en masse, Aegis just sent out Velocity and Dauntless, on patrol on the opposite end of the city, to move in to support.  
  
My attention perked up when I heard Huginn and Muninn were among the hostiles. Apparently the Empire was on the warpath, a show of force downtown. Nobody knew their goal, aside from waving the asshole flag, but I thought I recalled it was Coil’s territory. Maybe I could sneak out, in my civvies? I’d been trying to track down those bastards for _weeks_ , and they were out there goose-stepping in their stupid Viking-themed armor, only a mile away.  
  
I shook my head. Wasn’t worth catching shit from Piggot. Even if I did still have two charges free for the day…  
  
I’d lost track of the radio byplay, the sound of gunfire drawing me back to it. Armsmaster was engaging despite backup still being on their way. A rematch with Hookwolf? I could barely make out what was happening with everybody barking commands and asking questions and juggling multiple connections.  
  
Two words broke out from the mess.  
  
_“Armsmaster down.”_  
  
I froze. The overlapping voices stopped making sense. I had to pick apart individual words, try to connect the dots with the ice chips and iron wool filling my skull. Something about an ambulance en route, afraid to enter the active conflict zone.  
  
I looked down at myself. My gear was still mostly toast, laying out on the lab’s workbenches. I felt the raw, aching sense of _helplessness_ start to rise in my throat, beaten back by the burning heat of _fury_ at that same feeling, filling my veins with liquid fire.  
  
Through the shouting and gunshots over the comms, nobody noticed me slipping out.  
  
\---  
  
I couldn’t hear myself think over the sound of the murdercycle’s engines. A bones-deep rumbling from beneath me as the chopper growled like a beast from nightmares, eating up the streets between me and the fighting. Saw-toothed chains whirred, yawned open at the fore of the monster like a fanged maw, ahead of its eight-foot-tall front tire. My legs were wrapped tight at its spine, clinging on for dear life because in my drug-fueled haze I hadn’t thought something as pedestrian as handlebars were necessary for support. Or _steering_.  
  
I felt a howl bubbling up in my throat in response to the monster’s endless hunger, letting it loose as I threw my weight to the side to steer, skidding and shedding sparks, around a tight corner.  
  
A more rational part of me listened to Aegis’s directions. Once she’d stopped telling me I wasn’t cleared to engage, she’d decided to at least point me in the right direction.  
  
I could almost see the small park, nestled between tall office buildings. A stunted copse of trees on the northeast corner, where Minuteman was holding off half the Empire from taking advantage of his— _our_ —fallen comrade. I could hear his anti-materiel rifle’s resounding _crack_ from around the last corner.  
  
Five hundred feet. Heads were turning at the sound of my baby’s growl. Skinheads scrabbling to or from cover against this new incoming threat.  
  
Three hundred feet. Through the haze of at least one cloud of tear gas I saw shapes among the trees, darting in, getting pushed back. A violent dance.  
  
One hundred feet. Aegis’s words became white noise, joining the rest of the madness. Gunshots rang out, pinging off steel plate. Wasp stings, ignored. I urged the beast faster, hearing an answering rise in roaring pitch. I might have clipped a truck—the crunch of steel, blaring of a car alarm—but didn’t lose a fraction of my momentum.  
  
Fifty feet. A muzzle flash in the smoke, the distinctive shape of a wolf’s jagged silhouette thrown into sharp relief. A target. I shifted my weight, course correction.  
  
Ten feet before impact I leapt off the back of the motorcycle as it smashed into Hookwolf at a hundred miles an hour.  
  
_Payback, bitch._  
  
The sound of impact was deafening. The ensuing explosions only added to the chaos.  
  
I rolled once, twice, using flight to scramble to my feet. Assess the damage _later_ , where was—  
  
A muzzle, wide eyes behind a helmet, barrel turned aside in recognition. Behind him was—  
  
That was a lot of blood _oh god_ —  
  
I jammed my hands into the smashed section of armor, slippery, dug until I felt flesh—  
  
I begged her body to knit together. That less than half of Caduceus’s power would be enough. That I wasn’t too late.  
  
“Come on, come on, _come on_ ,” I pleaded, demanded, cajoled her wounds to knit themselves together, cells to repair and reproduce, I didn’t have perfect control but I could nudge and insist and _bully_ her biology if I had to, I had to, I had to—  
  
She groaned. Eyes fluttered open. Made another sound, familiar. The ‘you’re not supposed to be here’ grunt.  
  
I choked out a sound halfway between a bark of laughter and a sob.  
  
The parahuman power behind me shifted, I prepared to blast it—but it was _Guns_. I could trust Guns. Guns was my friend, too. Guns was— _Minuteman_ was asking me a question. My hands were slick with blood, steaming in the crisp air, but it wasn’t my hands that were important, it was Armsmaster. Armsmaster, heart beating, wounds mostly closed, organs un-shredded, enough biomass converted to blood to replace what was lost.  
  
“She’s stable,” I croaked. Cleared my throat, said it louder.  
  
Minuteman said something, drowned out by cracks of gunfire—not his—then grabbed a handle sticking out from the back of Armsmaster’s armor. Started dragging her away. Away to safety. I followed, floating to my feet, shuffling numb legs in some approximation of walking. I felt a sharp pain stab into the meat of my bicep, felt something snap beneath my skin, muscle slowly tensing to compensate. Wasp stings. Skitter had gone Empire? No, that couldn’t be right.  
  
_Bullets_. That was it. But I had my shield—  
  
Wait, no, my harness was just for show. Pretty lights, a useful lie, grabbed as I ran out the door in a moment of foresight.  
  
What mattered was that Armsmaster was safe. I could withdraw.  
  
I picked up the pace, willing to be a meat shield for my comrades as they fled for cover. Velocity and Dauntless would be here soon. Mission accomplished, fly the banner, sound the parade.  
  
Thundering footsteps drew my attention, head swiveling involuntarily to follow the sound, like a shark tasting blood in the water.  
  
It was them. The twins. Three stories tall in all their glory, not fifty feet away.  
  
My feet moved before I could tell them not to.  
  
Someone was shouting in my ear. I ignored it, picked up the pace. Just a few more feet—  
  
I felt a sudden _jerk_ as my momentum was arrested, my harness suddenly weighing a ton, pinning me in place—  
  
Metal blades. From my harness. Jammed into the ground like tent spikes, stopping me cold, trapped—  
  
Instinctively I struggled, bending a few blades. More erupted to take their place. Hands pinned in place, useless. _Helpless_. No no no no _no_ —  
  
I could see the silhouette of a woman in statuesque metal armor, disappearing into the smoke.  
  
I could hear the booming thuds of footsteps leaving me behind, sounding like despair.  
  
I could feel cold steel, a prison made of failure.  
  
I could taste blood and ash.  
  
It was all I could do to tell myself to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Return of—and farewell to—the murdercycle. May it rest in pieces.


	28. Day 24.28 : What Follows

**What Follows**  
  
Part of me wished I could still sleep.  
  
Part of me knew it would only be nightmares.  
  
The rest of me Tinkered. I had a lot of work to catch up on. My harness had been lackluster, rushed, designed by someone still getting a grasp on their powers. I could do better. Design it from the ground up to be unstoppable, versatile, capable. I tore apart the remnants of my old work, disassembled the metal from my temporary prison, integrated it into the new design. Learned from my mistakes—coated the plates in material immune to Kaiserin. That _bitch_.  
  
“Hey, Chris! Boy do you look tired. Here, I brought you coffee.”  
  
I nodded thanks to Dauntless, continued working. Time passed.  
  
“You sure you don’t want to take a break, Chris?”  
  
I nodded to Kid Win. I was fine. Even after I hit my lab limit, I took the components I didn’t need additional machinery for back to my quarters, kept working. Got Caduceus’s shield generator out of the way quickly. This armor would make Armsmaster’s work look like Trainwreck. Light faded. I turned on a lamp.  
  
“Have you eaten today, Chris? We’re worried about you.”  
  
I tore through a package of nuts—the kind that went with bolts, not beers—with my teeth, spilling the contents onto the desk of my quarters. Too big. I could strip layers off with a laser, get both the slivers I needed and carbon for nanotubes at the same time. Efficient.  
  
I could hear the concern in Minuteman’s voice, still at my door. “I brought you something from the canteen. You like the meatloaf, right?”  
  
My stomach growled. _Damnit Aegis, why couldn’t your power be useful for once?_ I scowled at the necessities of biology, drew out diagrams for actuators—reconfigurable as impact capacitors—while begrudgingly shoveling the red-stained meat down my gullet like bloody fistfuls of—  
  
I stopped eating and got back to work. Minuteman left.  
  
The monitor turned on. I turned it off.  
  
“I’m going for a run,” Velocity said. “Do you want to join me?”  
  
“Later,” I replied, voice hoarse, dry. I sipped from a bottle of water that had shown up on my workbench at some point. A thought struck me, and I was suddenly grateful I did end up copying Armsmaster’s design. One period in my life had been plenty. Let Velocity handle hers her own way. Eventually she must have.  
  
“Hey,” Caduceus said. Had I missed an appointment? I glanced around, but saw no clock. Must have been while I was putting the framework together. The foundation. Hollow bones, light but with enough flexibility to—  
  
I felt a touch at my wrist—jumped back, slapped it away. Heat gathered in my palms, facing a stern-faced young man in red and white. After a tense moment, wide-eyed, I let it dissipate.  
  
“Don’t _do_ that,” I rasped, heart pounding.  
  
“You’re dehydrated,” he declared, “and you need to eat.” _Asshole._ I’d eaten. “And your biology is getting weirder.”  
  
I blinked at him, wondering why he was telling me this. Looked back at my workbench.  
  
He made noises again. “Same time tomorrow then?”  
  
I floated back to the stool, tried to pick up the components I’d inadvertently scattered. Damnit. I had a _system_ , and now they were all mixed up.  
  
“Armsmaster’s fine, by the way.”  
  
I paused, looked his direction. He had his arms crossed. At his waist was my shield generator, small indicator lights flashing. Status green.  
  
“Your healing tech did a decent enough job. She’s recovering well.”  
  
I nodded slowly. Winced as the small smile cracked my chapped lips. “Good.”  
  
The armor was starting to take shape. Bits and pieces fitting together like Lego, except a thousand times more intricate, forming a greater whole. Not fast enough, though. Hobbled by limited lab time. Needed some rarer materials. At least I didn’t have to waste time patrolling until I got it finished. I assumed, anyway.  
  
A shadow darkened my door. Back in my quarters, apparently, although I didn’t remember moving from one place to the other.  
  
“Hey crazy chick,” Stephen said, voice casual. I ignored him. He’d go away eventually.  
  
“Oi. I’m talking to you.” Eventually.  
  
“Look, I know it sounds stupid coming from me, but you need to take breaks every once in a while. For sanity’s sake.” He scoffed. “Whatever’s left of it.”  
  
_“The fuck do you know,”_ I hissed at him, suddenly vehement. He seemed unfazed. The little turd.  
  
“I know this shit is weak.”  
  
My eye twitched. Lectured at by a teen. “Isn’t there a highschooler you could be bullying right now?”  
  
“Do you think you’re the only one with problems?” Ignoring me. Typical. “We’ve all been there, bitch. And you can either deal with them by coming out swinging—coming out stronger—or by crawling into your little hole and dying.” He made a gesture as though he’d stated something profound. “Laws of nature.”  
  
“Keep your amateur psychology to yourself.” I coughed, reached for a bottle of water, found none. He held one in his hands, dangling from his fingertips. I sneered, lips cracking. “I’m making myself stronger. Every day. What do you think I’m working on?” I gestured weakly—arms heavy—at the growing work of art in the corner. “Unlike you, _I’m_ more than a one-trick—”  
  
And then the water bottle hit me in the face.  
  
I reeled backwards, losing my balance and falling off the stool. My head made a dull _thump_ on the metal floor. I saw stars.  
  
Dazed, I looked up at him as he gave me the cockiest, shit-eatingest grin I’d ever seen.  
  
“I _will_ kill you for that,” I informed him.  
  
“Gotta catch me first,” he said, and slipped through the floor and out of sight.  
  
\---  
  
I lost track of him in Medical. Needed more range on my parahuman-sensing power, damnit. No sign of the smug little goth amidst the pale pastel walls adorned with charts and informative posters, the smell of disinfectant, the too-bright lights.  
  
My hunt was interrupted by the sight of the tall, lithe woman shuffling down the hallway, trying not to lean too heavily on a wheeled IV stand in one hand. My breath caught in my throat.  
  
“Been busy?” Colleen asked, looking a little pale, a little drawn, but alive. Walking under her own power. Mostly.  
  
My vision of her went wobbly as my eyes grew wet. I blinked the tears away, unsure of what to say.  
  
“You never visited,” she continued, edges of her lips turned up in a slight smile. “I was coming to you, see what you’ve been putting together.” She took a deep breath, wincing only slightly as her ribs stretched. Ribs I’d helped reassemble. “Must be—”  
  
Whatever she was going to say was cut off as I flew forward and wrapped her in a hug.  
  
She wheezed.  
  
I loosened my embrace.  
  
After a moment she wrapped her free arm around my shoulders, her voice resonant and comforting as I sobbed into her chest. “It’s ok,” she said, “I’ve got you, Chris.”  
  
I still almost shot Shadow Stalker when I saw his head rise up through the floor at the other end of the hall.  
  
I decided to let him live. For today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what my SIs are famous for?
> 
> Healthy coping mechanisms.
> 
> Also, I hadn't planned on making this Shadow Stalker... like this. It just kind of happened.


	29. Day 29.29 : Distraction

**Distraction**  
  
I was dragged, somewhat forcibly, to my counselor.  
  
She wasn’t pleased that it took so long for anyone to call her in, but she soldiered on with the kind of aplomb that a person who worked with the—occasionally literally—explosive temperaments of capes would need.  
  
While she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know, it was surprising how helpful it was to have someone tell me that _I wasn’t crazy_. That things that are lower-case-t-triggering can cause backtracking and loss of progress, and that wasn’t a reason to stop trying. I had to admit I had been doing better.  
  
She suggested balancing my coping mechanisms between Tinkering—which I wouldn’t have given up regardless—and spending time with people I felt comfortable around. Being cleared to know my powers by the PRT, she also submitted a request to the Think Tank that might address some of my issues. Wouldn’t tell me what she suggested, though, saying it was something to look forward to.  
  
Unless someone found Browbeat—they hadn’t, I checked—I wasn’t sure what she had in mind, but I supposed I’d find out.  
  
\---  
  
Between her and Armsmaster, I’d been convinced to ease up on the Tinkering. Just a little.  
  
I still put in my twelve hours in the lab, but I figured with Colleen, Christie, and Dragon helping, I wouldn’t fall too far behind schedule. And even I had to admit my work was better when I was eating and drinking regularly. And when I let others help, instead of shutting them out. I was sure there was a lesson in there somewhere.  
  
But it did mean I had time to kill. I resigned myself to a long, dull night of television, reading, and surfing the net. Colleen, however, surprised me as we were leaving the lab.  
  
“So, Chris.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I know what it’s like to feel… withdrawal, after a prolonged Tinkering fugue,” she said. I nodded, half-distracted by the designs I wasn’t able to work on. “I’d like to invite you to a bi-weekly social engagement with myself and some other colleagues.”  
  
That piqued my interest. She seemed unusually guarded, hesitant, and I wondered what sort of ‘social engagement’ activity she had in mind. When she stood there re-braiding her hair—and wow was that a process—rather than go on, I said “Ok, sure, what’s up?”  
  
She paused before answering, “It’s a team-building, problem-solving exercise, of sorts. Creative conflict resolution.” Her eyes didn’t quite meet my own, which was odd, but her head was at a bit of an angle to reach all her hair, so maybe I was imagining it.  
  
“Uhh.” That didn’t sound like much of a social engagement to me, but… it wasn’t like I had plans. “Sure, where and when?”  
  
Colleen hurried off after giving me a room number and time before I could ask any further questions.  
  
\---  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
Colleen frowned. “I know there is a... _stigma_ , but I’d hoped you would be a little more open-minded.” She was dressed in her usual ‘these are my tinkering clothes’ black sports bra and sweatpants, but had a T-shirt on over the top that read ‘Ten Minute Work Day’, white text on dark blue.  
  
At her right around the table, Harold twirled his pen idly, wearing a blue, red and white sweater vest, smiling to see me join the group. Beside him, Julian and Ellen were swapping papers in hushed, somewhat irritated and teasing tones, respectively, half-dressed in their costumes since they had just come off patrol. Across from them, Robin tapped her foot impatiently. Wearing jeans and a light blouse like she’d just walked in off the street; she paused long enough to give me a welcoming nod and small smile. To her right was Director Emmett, smoking a cigar and giving me an inscrutable look. At the head of the table, Other Robin beamed, partially hidden by a fold-out screen improvised out of a pair of three-ring binders.  
  
The sight of polyhedral dice, however, was a dead giveaway.  
  
“Are you fucking—of _course_ I’m down to play! I’m upset I didn’t hear about this sooner!”  
  
Colleen’s expression brightened considerably. Canon had it right; she had a really nice smile. “I’m glad to hear that, Chris. Pull up a chair.” Everybody shuffled a little to make room.  
  
Other Robin handed over what was—albeit slightly unfamiliar—still unmistakably a character sheet. While she started explaining the rules, and I tried to keep track of interdimensional variations in game design, I noticed something odd.  
  
“You know,” I chimed in, when Other Robin was at a good pausing point, “I’m surprised Colleen isn’t game mastering. Seems like she’d be the type… to…”  
  
The looks of horror across the faces of most of the people at the table threw me off my stride, words fading. I glanced to my right at Colleen, whose lips were pursed as she carefully looked down at the table.  
  
Emmett broke the prickly silence. “We don’t talk about that session, Chris.” His tone was such that I felt like I’d accidentally made a holocaust joke at a bar mitzvah.  
  
Colleen cleared her throat. In a carefully casual tone, she explained, “There is a Protectorate-wide house rule against Tinkers as DMs.”  
  
Julian winced. Harold looked a little pained. Other Robin looked… undaunted. Ellen looked amused, but she would be the type to laugh at a holocaust joke at a bar mitzvah, so…  
  
“Too much time spent on battlemap design and special effects?” I hazarded a guess.  
  
Colleen huffed. A variation on the grunt, this one was ‘amusing, but you’re still wrong’. Didn’t hear that one often.  
  
Harold was the first to break the somewhat awkward silence. “Grappling rules.”  
  
Julian jumped in, adding, “Encumbrance.”  
  
Ellen sing-songed, “If it’s not on your _sheet_ , your character doesn’t _have_ it.”  
  
Emmett took a puff of his cigar. “Fractional experience points.”  
  
Robin shuddered slightly, voice full of dread. _“THAC0 tables.”_  
  
“It’s a more logical system,” Colleen grumbled under her breath, without looking up.  
  
Nobody spoke for a moment. I coughed.  
  
Other Robin smiled, teeth brilliant in the somewhat dimmed light of the conference room. “As I was saying, we’re between campaigns, and…”  
  
My faux pas smoothed over, after a little bit of setup, I had a simple character on paper. A monk, fleet of foot, agile, a bit broody, with an unspecified-but-troubled past, and definitively male.  
  
Behind Other Robin, I could see the lights of the city twinkling, somewhat distorted by the force field. I felt myself relaxing, losing myself in another world, letting the rhythm of conversation and gameplay flow over me like a warm blanket. There were snacks, and snark, and Ellen faking a horrendous German accent, and a surprising in-character romance between Colleen’s barbarian and an NPC barmaid. There were dungeons and, at one point, dragons.  
  
I felt something uncoil inside me, a tension I hadn’t noticed I’d grown accustomed to until it started to lessen. Robin backstabbed and looted an important NPC halfway through explaining the quest. Colleen actually roared when her character entered a rage. Julian nearly killed us all with a poorly-placed fireball, Harold healing several of us back from the brink. Ellen’s lawful-good paladin _tsked_ and _tutted_ and lectured us at every turn. Emmett's wizard did most of the actual work. My monk suplexed a kobold so hard its head exploded.  
  
Four hours, three bags of chips, a bag of mini-muffins, and one plate of homemade cookies later, my cheeks hurt from smiling, I knew what Other Robin’s singing voice sounded like, and I hadn’t thought of Tinkering—or my body—even once.  
  
It was a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is probably my furthest departure from canon, but goddamnit, I love it too much.


	30. Day 30.30 : Attention

**Attention**  
  
Officially speaking, I was ‘turning off’ my Tinker powers when not actively working. Assigning ‘slots’ to other powers, so as to ease the urge to slip into a Tinker fugue. I kept up with Aegis and Caduceus, revisited Minuteman, and I found out the next day what my counselor had suggested, and that had been approved.  
  
“This is so fucking trippy,” I whispered, watching the faintly coruscating aura around Lady’s head go from _curious-interest-anticipation_ to _curious-amused-pleased_. A whole rainbow in a person.  
  
“You get used to it,” she assured me with a patient smile. And she meant it, which was… interesting. To _know_ something like that, instead of having to read it in body language or tone of voice.  
  
I raised a finger, pointing it towards her. She had just enough time for her aura to go from _amusement-curiosity_ to _realization-alarm_ before I zapped her with a little yellow beam of emotion.  
  
She giggled, an involuntary smile crossing her face, her aura suddenly brighter.  
  
It worked!  
  
Still grinning, she nevertheless warned, “Try not to do that too often. People are—understandably—a little sensitive to those kinds of things.”  
  
My own triumphant smile quickly faded. Well, _that_ was fucking sobering.  
  
I thought I’d just go ahead and put that power in the ‘do not use’ pile for now. Right next to Caduceus. And Minuteman. _Jesus_.  
  
\---  
  
It was kind of an adventure, seeing people’s emotions. It was surprising how often people’s feelings didn’t match what they tried to convey in speech, body language.  
  
I stayed after eating lunch in the cafeteria, people-watching, decoding colors and their meanings.  
  
Officer Ramirez may have been smiling and nodding politely, but he was completely oblivious to the heavy-handed hints Officer Yang was practically dropping like bricks on his skull. Seeing frustration darken her aura, I was half-expecting her to climb into his lap right there in front of everyone if he didn’t catch a clue soon.  
  
Gamma Squad looked like a normal carousing group of machismo-bound men and women, slapping backs and shouting dirty stories about their apparently absent member, but each carried such a darkness and mourning within them that it made me think their stories were in remembrance, not in celebration.  
  
The placid-faced accountant sitting alone, reading, seemed to be the picture of restraint and propriety, the slow, measured movement of spoon to soup to mouth almost metronomic in its regularity. The sheer _fury_ with which they scanned their paperwork, however, made me worry it would burst into flame any second.  
  
After a while, sated in both appetite and curiosity, I bussed my table and headed back to the lab, mind back on work.  
  
The on-duty officer nodded politely as I passed him by. “Ma’am.”  
  
I glanced at him absently, distracted, giving a curt nod—having eventually learned to suppress the eye twitch—when something in his aura caught my attention. An unfamiliar color. I tried to decode it as I passed him, craning my neck to look and catching his eyes drop down before slowly climbing back up and—  
  
\---  
  
_“Lady.”_  
  
She looked up at me with a start, eyes wide. I could almost feel her reading my emotions, seeing her gaze flicker around my face for an instant. “Yes? What is it? What’s wrong?”  
  
I leaned over the table where she was doing homework, my eyes drilling into hers, watching the _concern-worry-confusion_ grow in her aura. “ _Chartreuse_. Does it mean what I think it means?”  
  
Diana blinked. “Limish-green, disgust, fear?”  
  
What? [No, that was](https://mandelaeffect.com/chartreuse-red-or-green/)—”Fuck, I don’t know, it _sounds_ like that, except it’s a reddish-purple-pink…”  
  
“Ah… cerise?” Her cheeks flushed in an entirely different reaction, and she looked away, covering her mouth to cough, clearly trying to figure out how to respond. Her reaction—and her aura, _embarrassment-guilt-worry_ —were answer enough.  
  
“Fuck!” I threw my hands up in disgust—chartreuse, apparently. “I _hate_ this power!”  
  
I ran off to my quarters before she could make excuses.  
  
I had to take _all the showers_.  
  
\---  
  
I heard a knock at my quarters. I was busy scrubbing myself in the dark, trying not to think of his face as he eyed me up and down, imagining—  
  
Another knock. “Hey, Chris, it’s Denise. Can I come in?”  
  
“Showering,” I called back.  
  
“This will only take a minute. You can stay in the bathroom.”  
  
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I supposed I could use the distraction. “Sure, fine.”  
  
I heard the door open. What might have been footsteps, stopping outside the tiny bathroom door.  
  
“I overheard you talking with Diana earlier,” she said, just loudly enough for me to hear over the water.  
  
Great. The party trickster wants to give me shit. _“And?”_ There might have been a little edge to my tone. Maybe.  
  
“Have you considered binding?”  
  
My brain screeched to a halt, the biting words and harsh dismissals scattering along the tracks as the train derailed. It took me a long moment to get up to speed again. “I… don’t even know what to say to that.”  
  
I could almost hear her shrug. Almost as an afterthought, I glanced her way and saw a vague blob of _concern-worry-helpfulness_. Actually not teasing, then. She continued, “Not saying I've tried it before, but I could point you at some web videos.”  
  
Despite myself, I looked down at the orbs of betrayal. I instinctively covered my chest with my folded arms, letting the shower blanket me with heat. I knew that the phrase ‘nobody passes’ was a real thing; that if I wanted to, I could fight back against this body, hide its shapes, use the voicebox and beardomatic, maybe even get my colleagues to use the pronouns I’d spent my whole life taking for granted.  
  
Somehow it felt like giving up.  
  
A minute passed. Denise spoke again, “Sorry to bother you, Chris.”  
  
“No,” I said, before the fuzzy emotion-shape— _concern-embarrassment-dismay_ —left. “It’s… I appreciate the thought.” I smiled a little seeing their emotions brighten into _relief-satisfied-concern_. This power really took some adjustment, but I could see it had its uses. Then I had a thought. “If _you_ want to talk about it, well… you know where to find me.”  
  
“Sure, Chris,” she answered easily. “Oh, and don’t dry your skin out too much, Image will make you start wearing special facemasks to bed.”  
  
I chuckled. She didn’t.  
  
_Oh god, that was actually a thing, wasn’t it?_  
  
...Fuck’em. I had endless hot water and wasn’t afraid to use it.  
  
\---  
  
When I finally felt comfortable enough to leave my quarters—everarmor instinctively wreathing me in bulky, oversized layers that completely concealed my shape—I had the misfortune to run into Ellen.  
  
“Hey, Chris, I’ve been looking for you,” she said, blatantly ignoring my ‘I don’t have the spoons to deal with you today damnit’ aura I’d been putting out full blast. Maybe I needed to hang out with Invictus.  
  
I turned to face her and was surprised to see _concern-worry-determined_ in her aura, despite the playful grin she habitually wore. It was for that reason alone I let her continue, rather than making excuses and heading the opposite direction. Not that that normally worked, mind you, but it was the thought that counted. “Yeah?”  
  
She stopped a polite distance away, looking around for eavesdroppers. The hallway between my quarters and the cafeteria was curved, grey, and featureless, much like all PRT buildings. Probably done intentionally, to distract and confuse outsiders. Certainly worked on me, most of the time. Finding no one nearby, she said, “I heard through the grapevine that you got a little upset earlier today. Some unwanted attention.”  
  
I grimaced. Great. That was a rumor now. Because I needed _that_ kind of attention anymore than the… amorous kind. “It’s not like that,” she added quickly, evidently noticing my reaction, “I’m just nosy. Nobody’s talking shit about you, promise.” Well, she was definitely nosy. “Come on, let’s talk, woman to woman.”  
  
_Goddamnit Ellen._ I scowled at her, not following as she tried to pull me aside.  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Woman to woman-shaped person, whatever.”  
  
Almost out of morbid curiosity—her aura was still earnest and serious, despite her stupid fucking grin—I let her lead me into a side room. One of the many improperly labeled meeting rooms, titled ‘Maintenance 3B’.  
  
I crossed my arms as she closed the door behind her. “What?”  
  
She looked me over, her expression unexpectedly solemn once we were in private. I saw her gaze scan my clothes, my posture. “Not used to that kind of thing, huh?”  
  
“No. No I am _not_.”  
  
“I suppose it does take some adjusting to.”  
  
I grunted. Armsmaster’s ‘you’re not wrong but you don’t deserve a medal’. That was a fun one. Unfortunately, Ellen seemed as tone-deaf to the ever-efficient language of grunts as she was to everything else.  
  
She nodded, despite her clearly not grasping the nuance. “I think you need to reframe it. Turn a weakness into a strength.”  
  
I gave her a flat look. She put her hands up, warding off my glare.  
  
“No, really. It’s a matter of perspective. If you can get that kind of attention in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, what could you do to a man with some proper care and attention? And I’m not talking about it in a ‘you need to get yourself laid’ way, even though you _do_...”  
  
Oh _god_ no. It was difficult enough adjusting to panties instead of boxer briefs. “Not having that conversation with you, Ellen.”  
  
She bullied on, ignoring my protests. How very Assault. “I mean it in a power move way. Control it, use it as a weapon, a tool.” The worst part was, I could see in her aura that she meant this to be helpful. She leaned a hand on the wall beside me, gesturing animatedly with her other hand. “Distract, divert, destroy if you have to. Men are big dumb hormonal idiots and it’s only right that we take advantage of that to get what we want.”  
  
I gestured at myself, not offended so much as pointing out the stupid in her argument. “You know I was a man, right?”  
  
Damnit, and there was her stupid grin again. “Yeah, and how much thinking with your dick have you done since you lost yours?”  
  
I was almost— _almost_ —too shocked to be angry.  
  
My hand was suddenly weighed down with a crowbar. No, she’d just absorb the impact. Flamethrower, maybe?  
  
Even as I was considering how to hide the body, her question wormed its way into my thoughts anyway.  
  
How much of who I was had basis in my meat-shell? My thoughts, my hormones, my perspectives, my expectations, how I dealt with—  
  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Despite her grin, her aura was still _concern-helpfulness-satisfaction_.  
  
I glared at her, refusing to let her win the point.  
  
“Anyway, while we’re on the topic, it’s Julian’s birthday next week, and I was wondering if you could help me make it an extra-special one.”  
  
_Did not compute_. “I’m sorry, what?”  
  
Her grin widened, and I could see hints of _interest-curiosity-excitement_ tinge the edges of her aura. No cerise, thank fuck, but still, she was _not_ suggesting what I thought she was suggesting…  
  
“I just think, you know, it’s every man’s greatest wish. And I know you’ve eyed him before; he’s a good looking man. An ass you could bounce a quarter off of and get change back.” Despite the mental blue-screen, the thought crossed my mind that he _did_ look good in spandex. “Kind, respectful, _giving…_ ”  
  
“No. Absolutely not.”  
  
She wheedled, poking at me with that insidious grin, almost making me want to smile despite myself. “Come on, it doesn’t have to be anything serious. A one-time thing. I’ll give him a free pass, no jealousy or anything. And I don’t think he’ll mind however you want to be involved. Me” —damnit I wasn’t looking down her blouse _she did that on purpose_ — “him” —I mean he was kind of vanilla but he definitely worked out— “or both of us.”  
  
I did didn’t appreciate the way she leaned over me, practically thrusting her chest in my face, one arm propped up on the wall behind me, cornering me without me noticing. I didn’t appreciate at all the way my cheeks started burning, or the _very strange yet also familiar_ twisting in my guts as she practically forced the mental images to cross my mind.  
  
Ellen leaned in closer, practically touching my nose with her own, white teeth in a smile that seemed entirely too hungry for my taste, her aura _interest-eagerness-curiosity-excitement_ —  
  
Oh god, I was short of breath, I prayed for a distraction, anyone, _anything_ —  
  
[And then we heard sirens](https://youtu.be/msX8iULEQgA).

 

\-----

  
Bonus:  


The mood was somber as the assembled heroes gathered at the helicopter pad on the Rig, preparing to fight the Great White Bastard. I tried to convince myself they were going to be fine, tried to hold it together.  
  
Assault called out to me after the _crack_ of Strider’s arrival, as everyone got within range for the next leg of the journey. Possibly to their deaths, or worse.  
  
“Hey, Hotswap! If we all make it back alive, you pretty much have to!”  
  
It took me a second to switch gears, the conversation we’d had minutes earlier feeling so far away. My face flushed when I realized what she meant.  
  
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Assault!”  
  
She had just enough time to grin as Strider called out time. “Exactly!”  
  
And then with another _crack_ , they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dramatic timing!


	31. Day 30.31 : Waiting

**Waiting**  
  
Of course I couldn’t go. I wasn’t cleared for the Simurgh, not even close.  
  
And so I watched as my teammates, my friends—all but Other Robin, too important to risk losing—teleported halfway across the world to fight something vastly dangerous and cruel. Helpless, yet again. Even rage would earn me nothing.  
  
I couldn’t Tinker. Concepts that seemed so concrete hours before were nebulous, constantly shifting.  
  
_Nobody died in canon_ , I reminded myself.  
  
_But Armsmaster is still recuperating, and with less tech than in canon_ , I countered.  
  
I punched Aegis. She punched me back. Neither of us were really feeling it. Clockblocker was flipping channels every few seconds in the Wards break room. A riot of noise, flickering images. Word salad. Shadow Stalker glowered at nothing, pretending he wasn’t worried. I could see otherwise. Other Robin worked out, less talkative than usual. Her withdrawal spoke volumes.  
  
_Maybe I should have warned someone_ , I wondered.  
  
_Against the Simurgh, it wouldn’t have helped_ , I decided.  
  
Everybody was anxious. It clung to them like smoke, wreathing their heads in despair, choking and noxious. I found Lady in her room, lights off, watching cartoons with the sound turned up all the way. She smiled sadly at me, understanding. Trying to block it all out. It must have been worse for her.  
  
_I even hope Assault and Battery survive_ , I realized.  
  
_Even if I hadn’t actually considered the offer_ , I debated.  
  
_Even though a part of me did_ , I went on, despite myself. Traitorous.  
  
I drowned out the silence with rocket-propelled grenades in the shooting range.  
  
I smothered the tension with cafeteria slop, even less flavorful than usual. I wasn’t sure if the nervous staff members were better or worse than the visibly unconcerned ones.  
  
I chased the anxiety with a pair of sleeping pills, doing nothing to my biology except making me feel even thicker-headed for a short while. I think my liver took up the slack.  
  
I ran from the fear, doing laps around the gym.  
  
One hour. Two. Three. Four. No news, of course there was no news, it was a Simurgh fight.  
  
Five, six, seven, eight hours. I picked at my nails. Painted them so I’d stop. Got nail polish on my teeth.  
  
Nine hours, nothing. Ten, eleven, twelve, _they are never coming home, it is my fault somehow, I am going to end up alone in this god-forsaken world_ —  
  
I screamed in an empty conference room until my voice was raw.  
  
Hour thirteen, lucky thirteen, passed in Piggot’s office, watching him do paperwork. The wheels of bureaucracy never stopped spinning, even when the world was ending. He accepted my presence with long-suffering patience.  
  
His phone rang. I almost jumped through the ceiling.  
  
Emmett answered immediately, his voice clipped, professional.  
  
I saw his aura change before his expression did. I nearly blacked out from relief.  
  
No casualties. Minor injuries.  
  
They were safe.  
  
_They were coming home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, Endbringer fights are stressful as fuck.


	32. Day 31.32 : But Why, Though

**But Why, Though**  
  
Once I made sure they were safe, insisted on healing what injuries they did have, and hugged every last one of them—even Ellen with her waggling eyebrows—I couldn’t stay on the Rig anymore.  
  
Even surviving a Simurgh battle took its toll. I didn’t have to ask how it went. I could see the answer on their drawn, exhausted, haunted faces; in their violently purple auras. The whole base stank of it.  
  
I couldn’t breathe. Had to go.  
  
\---  
  
The city was still quiet, even as people resumed their lives like nothing had happened.  
  
I wandered the streets, soaking up the smog from morning commuters. Like a dowsing rod, I turned from negative emotions, chased down positive ones.  
  
A cheerful hotdog vendor, chatting amiably with each and every customer, got a hefty tip.  
  
I ate my lunch at a small public park with a playground, plopped down on a bench beside mothers, strollers, the occasional father. I supposed there were _some_ benefits to this body, objectively speaking. Nobody gave me a second glance as I soaked in the ambient happiness from the screaming, squealing, running children. Even the sporadic skinned knee or screeched argument, the flare of _pain-fear-anger_ , quickly evaporated like mist in the light of the sun.  
  
Skirts were super comfortable, too.  
  
One girl—a little more than half my height, hair a mess of dark curls, eyes screwed shut with tears and balled fists—must have confused me for her mother, stumbling towards me with angry red scrapes on her forearms and knees. I looked around, panic building, not seeing anyone claiming the squalling little whelp as she bumped into my knees, clearly waiting for something even as she cried blindly at me.  
  
For lack of any other idea, I just patted her awkwardly on the head, making shushing noises. The volume of her cries lessened marginally, gradually reducing to sniffles instead of desperate sobs.  
  
_“Hurts,”_ she whined, still not seeing me through her tears. Hell, she wasn’t even looking at me, trying to see her own elbows, presenting them as if I could cure them with a soothing word.  
  
I wasn’t her mom— _where the hell was that stupid parent, damnit, I am a complete stranger_ —but, well, I could do something, at least.  
  
Another gentle pat on the head. “It’s okay, it feels worse than it is. You’ll be fine, promise.” As I spoke, I demanded her already-building scabs heal, scrapes disappear. She startled at the sudden cessation of pain, staring up at me with bright blue eyes, still wet, but now full of _awe-confusion-relief-gratitude_.  
  
“You’re not mommy.”  
  
My heart pounded with a combination of mortal terror and a bizarre fondness. A calming smile, somehow only half-forced. “I know. What does she look like?”  
  
“Anna!” I heard a woman call out—wearing a similar grey skirt to me, I noticed—striding purposefully across the small park, causing her child to spin so fast she almost fell over.  
  
“Mommy!”  
  
_Thank fuck._ That was the most I’d interacted with a child in my life, and more than I ever wished to, ever again. Even if her aura was a brilliant, radiant bubble of _joy-happiness-relief-awe_ and similar colors.  
  
The woman babbled apologies— _embarrassment-fear-relief_ —hugging her spawn tight, but I waved her off with a smile, deciding I’d had enough of the park.  
  
\---  
  
I found myself sitting in the back of a movie theater, watching its patrons more than the action-comedy movie on the screen. The seats were packed, clouding up the place with _excitement-happiness-amusement_ as things exploded, one-liners were delivered and the bad guy got what he deserved. I couldn’t help but feel buoyed up by the ambient warmth, like floating on the surface of a bubble bath.  
  
It was as shallow as the plot and as unfulfilling as the popcorn, but it was still nice. A bit of escapism.  
  
\---  
  
Music drew my feet to the next venue as much as my empathy-sight.  
  
A jazz club. In Brockton Bay, of all places.  
  
I slipped into the club, not drawing a second glance from the bouncer for once. Didn’t even pay cover. Woo, helpful sexism.  
  
The musicians were in the fucking _zone_. An organ, rather than a piano, the player’s fingers dancing endlessly. The drummer, an old man with a crooked nose and a look of fierce concentration, kept the beat with relentless efficiency, adding a flare of cymbal and snare. The guitarist, playing in perfect harmony, almost blurring with speed, precision, enthusiasm. The saxophonist, however, was the crowning glory, crooning with a soulful sound that brought tears to my eyes. They blared _joy-focus-concentration-excitement-joy_ , a haze of color that surrounded, permeated everyone in earshot.  
  
Nobody could stay still anywhere in the club, swaying, tapping feet, dancing, whooping and cheering at particularly skillful moments. The entire crowd was _alive_ with music, emotions flaring in sync with the rise and fall of the saxophone’s song.  
  
For hours I nursed a single beer, tipping the waitstaff so they wouldn’t object, practically throwing my cash at the tip jar when it was passed around. [Even bought a CD](https://www.b3jazz.com/our-music).  
  
\---  
  
The sun had long set and the club closed down when I found myself wandering the darker parts of the docks, following a different kind of song. This one resonated in my chest, shook the soles of my shoes like the subsonic calls of elephants. Even muffled, it grabbed my bones, reminded me of the feeling of the tattoo needle as it drew close to my collarbone, like my whole ribcage was a tuning fork.  
  
I followed the occasional wandering spotlight of emotion, _anticipation-excitement_ blurry in the way I could only assume altered states of mind could distort one’s aura.  
  
It wasn’t hard to spot the rave. Not with the speakers rumbling the very earth beneath my feet.  
  
Once again, I was let in without more than a glance. My clothes matched those around me, if a bit warmer against the chill. Disorganized mobs, screeching feedback, hundreds of neon flashes and laser-streaked clouds of smoke over an even more colorful crowd of dancers. They clumped in groups, the occasional lone person twirling and gyrating somewhere near the beat.  
  
I saw auras smeared like watercolors, emotions blurring into their neighbors, even from one person to another.  
  
A ping on a different sense drew my eyes to the DJ, up on a ramshackle platform of speakers, lights and scavenged metal. Clad in the torn remnants of what might have once been clothes, Streaker wore her purple-blue mask, tattered yellow cape and little else, directing the crowds below like a conductor. Her hands wove discordant sounds together, eyes fixed on her work, only occasionally sparing a glance over at the crowd, like a lifeguard on duty, except _intending_ to drown those below. Hers was a little bonfire of unnaturally sharp _glee-focus-concentration-satisfaction_ , standing out amidst the howling speakers.  
  
Another time, another life, I might have stayed. Partaken in the festivities, tried to lose myself for a time.  
  
But I saw too many people looking at me with ugly colors, sending a shiver of ice down my spine.  
  
For all the beauty in noise and movement and color, I wasn’t safe here.  
  
\---  
  
I flew back to the Rig in the pitch black of night, leaving from an abandoned jetty and trusting my dark clothes and lack of lights on the water to keep me concealed from observers.  
  
The underside of the oil rig was rough and a little dirty, less architecturally polished than the public-facing upper levels. The bulk of the base blocked out stars above, however, turning it into a dark sky far closer than it appeared. It left the twinkling lights of the city—auras invisible at this distance, thankfully—filling half the horizon, the thousands of fireflies concealing the grit, dirt and despair from sight, making it magical instead of real.  
  
I breathed, trying to hold onto the lingering clouds of positive emotion I’d soaked in throughout the day.  
  
It started to rain. The ocean hissed all around me, beyond the edges of the looming artificial sky, sharp lines on an ever-shifting surface.  
  
There was a _clunk_ from up above, breaking the smooth white noise of water on water. A little rectangle of light, cut into slivers by the spiral staircase between it and the small platform I rested on, just above the surface of the sea. Another _thunk_ , darkness returning. Footsteps, shoes on metal. The sounds paused as the intruder noticed me, then resumed, steady, resolute.  
  
A body, tall and lean, visible only as an interruption, an iridescent outline filled with dark, obscuring the earth-bound stars of the city to one side. She lowered herself carefully until she was sitting beside me, feet also dangling off the side, mere inches above the surface of the bay.  
  
A timeless interlude.  
  
Then Colleen spoke, barely audible above the whispering of rain on waves. “I like to come down here sometimes, after a long day. It’s peaceful.”  
  
I nodded. I wasn’t sure if she could see.  
  
Time passed again, like the space between breaths.  
  
“I never apologized for shouting at you, the other day.”  
  
My feet stopped their slow swinging above the water. “I didn’t apologize either. I’m sorry. I was angry, and it wasn’t your fault.” _It was my own fault,_ I didn’t add. She knew already.  
  
“I’m sorry too,” she said, voice low, steady, dependable as a heartbeat. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. It was unprofessional.”  
  
“You’re good,” I replied, and meant it. A little breath of a sigh, or maybe I imagined it. I was only seeing her in the corner of my eye; didn’t feel the need to interrogate her aura for the truth behind her words. It was Colleen.  
  
“I never said thank you for saving my life, either.”  
  
My face softened into a smile. “I said you’re good,” I repeated. Not like I did it for _her_.  
  
I didn’t bother keeping track of the comfortable silences.  
  
“I’m glad you’re starting to settle in,” she said, as if there hadn’t been a pause at all. “Feel more comfortable.”  
  
I half-shrugged, grin widening, a bit wry. “I admit, y’all’re growing on me.”  
  
“Good.” I heard her shift her weight, and then her hand laid gently on my shoulder, a reassuring pressure. Somehow the contact didn’t bother me, even if I half expected it to. “You’re a strong addition to the team, Chris. We’re better for having you.”  
  
I didn’t know what to say to that, but didn’t feel the need to fill the space between us with words. She accepted my silence as an answer, continuing, “I worry that you’re… restless. I know that the restrictions of the Protectorate can be chafing, but the advantages outweigh the drawbacks. I’m speaking from experience, there.”  
  
“Sometimes it feels like I’m not actually accomplishing anything,” I admitted, voice a hushed whisper. She let me speak, not interrupting. I licked my lips, suddenly dry. “I’m still afraid, all the time. The people that…” My throat tightened, and Colleen’s hand squeezed my shoulder, comforting. “...attacked me, they’re still out there. Hurting other people. And not just them. The whole city is _rotten_ with them, people like them. Rapists. Abusers. Murderers. Human traffickers. Sick fucks, and the system just lets them get away with it, because they’re numerous, powerful, or _inconsequential_ enough to stay alive. And that’s just _here_.” I breathed out a mirthless laugh, shaking my head. “I can’t even wrap my head around the world being this way. It’s wrong. It’s _fucked_.”  
  
Colleen stayed quiet for a long moment. “I’ve heard it said adulthood is realizing life isn’t fair, and maturity is deciding to keep trying anyway.”  
  
I sneered without thinking, hating the truth of it. Maturity was never my strong suit.  
  
“It’s overwhelming,” she admitted, barely audible over the rain. “I try to face it like I do my Tinkering.” I glanced her way, noting the _determination-fondness-hope_ in her aura. She continued, “You can’t build a motorcycle or a halberd in one piece. You have to break it down into smaller steps, achievable goals. Meet one, move on to the next one.” Aided by a Space Whale Magic, of course, but her point stood. “I find life is all about small, but measurable, incremental growth.”  
  
She turned her head at my silent consideration, and I could see the faintest outline of her face in the distant reflected city-light, expression serious, expectant. “What small steps can we take to move you towards your goals, Chris?”  
  
The question was utterly paralyzing. I closed my eyes, took a shaky breath, found myself leaning towards her, suddenly exhausted. Her hand shifted from one shoulder to the other, holding me in a gentle side-hug, letting me think.  
  
I couldn’t tear down Brockton Bay and rebuild it in my image. I couldn’t strip the darkness out of men’s souls. I couldn’t force the bastards of the world to develop empathy, see the pain they caused, repent. My solo patrols, hunts, accomplished little. Accomplished nothing. Not really.  
  
Small, but measurable, incremental growth.  
  
If not everyone, then who _could_ I take down to make an impact?  
  
If Streaker was too small-time to care about—pre-Leviathan and without Road Hog—Lung was still beyond me. Coil was yet untouchable, with her power. Who else…  
  
I tensed, and I felt her exhale slightly, waiting.  
  
“If I told you I knew who Kaiserin was, would you believe me?”  
  
I could almost hear the gears turning in her head. The slow rise and fall of her chest as I leaned on her, the movement of her jaw barely noticeable as she chewed on her thoughts, lapsed into a contemplative silence.  
  
A minute passed before she answered, her voice slow, distant. “If I asked if it was your power-sense, Chris, would you answer me honestly?” Her tone was carefully neutral, non-accusing, deliberately casual.  
  
I said nothing, holding very still, cheek pressed against her shoulder.  
  
“My nanothorn project.” Still that damnably even tone, even her heartbeat steady. I winced. Me and my stupid mouth. “I hadn’t started prototyping. It was only in my secure files, notes. Even Dragon didn’t know about it.” A pause, a breath, her chest rising and falling again. “And you said Leviathan, specifically.”  
  
I shut my eyes, blowing out a sigh. _Fuck_.  
  
I’d have said ‘I can explain’, but I really couldn’t. Not in a way she’d believe, or accept. My thoughts raced, trying to come up with something more plausible. Something that didn’t make me out to be a liar, an invader, a thief. What could I possibly—  
  
“So I’m inclined to believe you,” she said finally, as though my world—this world—hadn’t started to crumble around me.  
  
My breath caught in my throat. She wasn’t going to…  
  
“Are you certain?” she asked, and it took me a moment to figure out what she was asking.  
  
I could only nod.  
  
“Who?”  
  
I told her. Saw her aura shift as she considered. A slow nod.  
  
“We’ll need proof,” she said, determined.  
  
I nodded back.  
  
“It’s a good step, Chris.” I could sense her smile as much as see it, hear the warmth—the pride—in her voice.  
  
I shuddered as I exhaled, feeling like I’d just ran a marathon.  
  
She squeezed me tighter, held against her side, as we looked out over the city across the bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris takes a day off.


	33. Day 33.33 : Progress Marches

**Progress Marches**  
  
Director Piggot’s office was cold and barren of personal effects. A desk, two reinforced chairs, a large monitor behind him, an obviously fake plant in the corner, a laptop and docking station, a cheap particle-board desk. His chair was the only concession to comfort, plush pleather that hissed faintly as he adjusted his weight, turned to face us as we stood at various degrees of attention.  
  
“Armsmaster. Hotswap. To what do I owe the unexpected seven AM meeting?”  
  
I opened my mouth, but Armsmaster put up a hand. She fiddled with her halberd. “Director, please enact counterintelligence protocols, tier three. Emm ess gamma epsilon maker three four six.”  
  
A fractionally raised eyebrow turned my way, and I stammered through my own poorly memorized passphrase. “Um, emm ess zulu charlie baker two six… one.” A subtle movement behind the desk, followed by a _thunk_ and a _hum_ from the door behind us and other places around the room. I hoped that was the ‘MS code accepted’ reaction and not ‘you are clearly imposters and will be foamed and dissected’ one.  
  
“Emm ess kappa epsilon mushroom four five four, acknowledging all present are accounted for and assumed to be who they say they are. Counterintelligence protocols tier three active.” Director Piggot raised one slightly bushy eyebrow higher, looking between the two of us, expectant. “What’s going on?”  
  
Armsmaster finished doing something to her halberd, and with a faint hum, the air around us grew unnaturally still, her voice flat and without reverb as she finally broke her silence. “Tier four counterintelligence protocols engaged. The room is secure.” She turned her attention to the Director. “Forgive the precautions, sir, we intend to discuss highly sensitive issues and cannot afford any degree of information leakage.”  
  
He stiffened. “Explain.”  
  
My heart leapt in my chest as Armsmaster gestured at me to respond. “Sir, I have reason to believe the supervillain Kaiserin is Maxine Anders.”  
  
His eyes narrowed. “CEO of Medhall? I’ve met her at fundraisers. A bit of a boor. On what basis?”  
  
My jaw tensed. “Extremely strong unconfirmed insight, sir,” I said through gritted teeth.  
  
Piggot leaned back, eying me closely. “Thinker bullshit, you mean.”  
  
I nodded, the movement jerky. “Yes sir.”  
  
His gimlet stare turned to Armsmaster. “You second it?”  
  
“Yes, Director. Hotswap has shown some precedent for knowing things they shouldn’t. It is sporadic enough I cannot recommend Thinker testing, but what insights they have have proven uncannily accurate.”  
  
“Enough you are willing to bring this completely unconfirmed suspicion to me.”  
  
Armsmaster nodded, tense as a wire.  
  
Piggot worked his jaw, muscles bunching beneath his jowls. I could see _suspicion-wariness-concern-hope_ flickering in his aura. The last one was promising. I tried not to hold my breath.  
  
“Convincing enough to investigate, but not enough to pay official attention to.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded again, the movement stiff.  
  
Armsmaster chimed in, bless her, “Additionally, the same insight indicates a high potential for moles within the PRT that may leak any formal investigation to relevant parties.”  
  
The Director’s expression darkened. He looked at me like the very implication was a personal attack against him, but I tried to keep a neutral poker face. I didn’t think I succeeded. He took a deep breath, body shifting and settling like an overworn couch. “Thinker bullshit is notoriously unreliable, Hotswap. I cannot invest resources on a hunch, nor can I defy procedure because you want me to. I’m going to need more from you, despite Armsmaster’s faith in your assertions.”  
  
I sagged a little in my stance, but it wasn’t anything Armsmaster hadn’t warned me about beforehand. Taking a deep breath, trying to stand up a bit straighter, I offered, “There is one way of confirming it without a full investigation. Enough to justify one, anyway.”  
  
His expression changed, considering me in a new light. “Your power-sense.”  
  
I nodded.  
  
The Director looked between the two of us, eyes thoughtful, _considering-hopeful-intrigued_. “You have a proposal.”  
  
Armsmaster nodded.  
  
Settling back once again into his comfortable-looking office chair, Piggot made a gesture with one hand. “Let’s hear it then.”  
  
\---  
  
“I’m interested to hear this proposal as well,” Ms Anders (please, call me Maxine) said as she entered one of the labs buried within the bowels of the Medhall building, interrupting the somewhat stilted conversation I was having with a lab tech. I was suddenly grateful for the medical mask covering my grin of triumph.  
  
She acknowledged the VPs and Directors who had also crowded in the small, sterile environment, seemingly long-accustomed to their paper shoes and dignity-destroying hairnets. Armsmaster’s bulky tresses, piled high, looked particularly absurd with the multiple caps binding it in place, almost like she had an entire toadstool perched on her head. She bore the indignity with her usual stoicism.  
  
Maxine, of course, hadn’t bothered. CEO privilege, natch. She wore an undoubtedly expensive suit, cut to show her figure without being crass, topped off with leather boots that probably cost more than my power armor would when completed.  
  
Her handshake was firm without being obnoxious, and her smile was thousand-watt bright, a spotlight of her attention. When she spoke, it felt like she drew all the energy in the room towards her, a sort of commanding presence that made everyone listen; a general on the battlefield. Even I had to be impressed. I wondered if Image could do that to me, if I actually paid attention in training.  
  
The supervillain’s eyes were naturally drawn to the bulky device strapped to my left arm, which I held up for inspection. Like she could tell it was anything but slapped-together servos, lights, and holographic effects.  
  
“Hotswap’s technology is particularly adept at mimicking the effects of other powers, Maxine,” Armsmaster said once introductions were complete, finally replying to her initial statement. “She’s been working closely with Caduceus to reproduce a limited form of cell regeneration we believe could be invaluable when partnered with the research capabilities and resources Medhall can bring to bear.”  
  
The CEO arched one carefully sculpted eyebrow, interest clearly piqued. Her eyes wandered over me and my mockery of a device, _intrigue-curiosity-hunger-caution_ swirling in her aura.  
  
The whole dog-and-pony show continued. A volunteer came forward with minor lacerations on one arm, shallow and carefully documented. A few toggles made the lights spin alarmingly, a loud whirring filling the space, salarymen taking cautious steps back while pretending they weren’t. Holographic lines and grids whirled over the surface of the injury, and I pressed additional switches and buttons, each making corresponding—completely meaningless— _beeps_ and _bloops_. Then I touched the patient’s arm, feeling their biology with my newly-completed sixth sense, slowly cajoling the scratches to close over a period of minutes. A pale imitation of the real thing, but not beyond expectation for Tinkertech.  
  
There was some applause. I didn’t try to hide my pride, although it wasn’t for the same reasons they probably thought it was.  
  
I let Armsmaster do the talking from then on. A possible collaboration, carefully neutral phrasing, mentions of lawyers and liability and Q2 budgetary shuffling. Cautious discussions of Protectorate investment in private endeavors. An empty promise for future contracts, should testing prove fruitful. Vice presidents chimed in, throwing their weight around, trying to vie for legitimacy even as they hedged their bets should Tinkertech prove as unreliable as it always did, conjecturing ways it could be simplified, reproduced. It would be weeks before anything emerged from the morass of corporate bullshit. More than enough time, hopefully.  
  
Every once in a while Maxine’s spotlight attention drifted from Armsmaster to myself, and I had to force myself to breathe normally, evenly. I’d had practice with that, at least.  
  
The meeting couldn’t end fast enough. I’d already gotten what I’d needed.  
  
Armsmaster waited in tense silence until we’d returned all the way back to her lab, security measures confirmed and in place, before exhaling softly. “Well?”  
  
I held up a small piece of scrap metal. It grew a tiny triangular blade.  
  
Between us, we shared a small, vicious grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's fuckin' teamwork~


	34. Day 37.34 : Awkward Conversations

**Awkward Conversations**  
  
Things moved quickly—at least for a government agency.  
  
My enthusiasm for my power armor redoubled, long hours spent in the lab bolstered by the ability to multiply any of the rare metals I’d been working with without the need for further requisitions.  
  
I aided Armsmaster and Kid Win in creating Tinkertech spies, drones, listening devices, contraptions that could patch undetected into phone lines and ethernet cables. Data streamed in, to be picked apart by Dragon’s programs. Evidence gathered in dribs and drabs, snowflakes that would precipitate an eventual avalanche.  
  
Infosec was _tight_. It was frustrating to keep all work-related conversations sequestered in secure spaces, but it was worth it. I was actually working _towards_ something, instead of just away from everything. It was startling how much that helped.  
  
I enjoyed the even closer relationship with my fellow Tinkers, working together on a single project beyond simply getting me equipped for patrol.  
  
I should have been more aware of the unintended side effects, though.  
  
It was seven in the morning, and Christie and I were indulging ourselves with a break, chugging bottles of water in the somewhat-stifling, somewhat-comforting heat of Armsmaster’s compact— _efficient_ —workspace. Colleen was napping in her coffin, the claustrophobic sensory deprivation tank that had probably been nothing more than a cot propped in the corner once upon a time. I’d gradually reduced my everarmor to a sports bra and shorts, prioritizing comfort over privacy in the safe space of the lab. Christie had tied her loose shirt in a knot in front of her stomach, also having dug shorts from somewhere in her closet on base in defiance of the chill weather outdoors.  
  
“Your tattoos are cool,” she said, interrupting the haphazard discussion on the values of different metamaterials in data transmission versus energy transmission.  
  
“Thanks,” I replied without thinking, an automatic response. Then I glanced over towards her and saw her eyes dart away, suddenly shy. I took in her aura and—  
  
_“Gotta go,”_ I said hastily, everarmor spontaneously sprouting long sleeves, pants. She might have stammered something but I was already out of the lab in a flash.  
  
\---  
  
_“Lady.”_  
  
I startled her again, this time sitting alone, manning the Console. She took in my aura and _concern-worry_ crept into her own. “Oh, Hotswap, what can I—”  
  
“Your power is killing me. How do I politely break the heart of someone way too young for me _oh god what am I talking about you’re useless goodbye_.”  
  
She had the decency to flash _embarrassed-regretful-guilt_ before I was off again.  
  
\---  
  
“Robin, I need your help.”  
  
She was in the gym, on her special treadmill, legs blurring. She came to an abrupt stop, the surface beneath her slowing down gradually—a whining, descending hum—as she propped her stockinged feet on the platforms to either side of it. “Oh, hey Chris. Come again?” Her smile was warm, welcoming, the picture of helpfulness.  
  
I hopped from one foot to the other, floating in the air between each nervous movement, energy to burn. “How do I politely tell a girl I’m not interested without ruining a professional relationship?”  
  
Her aura and expression sank. This was not a comfortable topic for her, apparently, and I suddenly had regrets. She looked as though she was ready to run from the conversation at the earliest opportunity. “I’m not… I’m not the best at that, Chris.” She sucked her teeth, glancing everywhere but at me. “Have you told her you’re not… interested in, umm… girls?”  
  
I winced. “It’s more an... age thing. Don’t want to go into more detail unless I can swear you to secrecy.” I didn’t bother with Lady because, well, she was _Lady_.  
  
Robin tensed, blurring slightly in a way that I didn’t need empathy-sense to know meant she had become even more uncomfortable. Her breathing was hummingbird fast, face flushed. “I’m not… I don’t…” Her aura flashed with _discomfort-anxiety-guilt-fear-anger-shame_ , and I had _absolutely no idea_ what that meant. Goddamnit Lady!  
  
Before I could say anything else, she was gone. A blur of bright red and dark emotions.  
  
I blinked, then sagged.  
  
I didn’t like my next option. Not one bit.  
  
\---  
  
I knocked on a door labeled ‘Waterworks 7F.’  
  
A blurry cloud of _irritation-frustration-boredom_ on the other side spiked with _relief-freedom-happiness_. “Come in!”  
  
Ellen was visibly thrilled to see me, reports scattered across her office desk, her abysmal chicken-scratch scrawled in different fields, wandering across horizontal lines like they were obviously only intended for _other_ people. “Chris! Thank god. Please save me from after-action reports.”  
  
I closed the door behind me—anxiety growing being in an enclosed space with _her_ —but I didn’t want any passersby to overhear. Christie didn’t deserve that.  
  
Ellen’s eyebrow raised scandalously, a sly smile creeping across her face. “You’re nervous.” She stated the obvious. “Is this about Julian’s—”  
  
“No!” I almost shouted, face flushing deeper. I took a steadying breath. “You told me I could come to you for advice. _Woman_ advice.”  
  
“Oh _ho_.” She preened, smile widening. She leaned back, crossed her arms behind her head, looking like Christmas arrived early. “What can Assault, Mistress of Romance, do for you today?”  
  
I groaned, covering my face in my hands. I couldn’t stand to see the _smug-satisfied-curious-anticipation_ in her aura. Muffled, through gritted teeth, I muttered, “This stays between us, understand?” When she made a noise to the affirmative, I blurted out, “Christie has a crush on me. How do I destroy it without destroying _her_?”  
  
Ellen was uncharacteristically silent for a moment. I hazarded a glance between my fingers, saw her looking thoughtful, emotions absent of any of the expected entertainment or schadenfreude. It made me blink in surprise. When she did speak, her voice was measured, businesslike. “Are you sure?”  
  
I nodded. “Empathic sight.”  
  
She blew out a sigh, leaning forward, resting her chin on her intertwined hands. “That’s rough.”  
  
“Tell me about it!”  
  
“Have you tried talking to her about it? She’s mature for her age. She might be able to handle it.”  
  
I gestured helplessly with my hands, trying to convey my sheer discomfort at the very idea. “I… don’t know how to even _begin_ to have that conversation.”  
  
“Then it’ll be a learning experience for both of you, Chris. You can’t just lock her out of the lab, avoid her forever. You have to handle this like an adult. Especially since you _are_ the adult between the two of you.”  
  
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “Who are you and what have you done with Ellen.”  
  
Well, at least that smile was a sign I didn’t have to resort to M/S protocols. Probably. “You don’t get to be as world-wise and experienced as I am without having some uncomfortable conversations along the way, you know.”  
  
“I’m older than you,” I pointed out.  
  
Her grin widened again. “And yet I’m the happily married one.”  
  
_Low blow, ass._ I glowered at her. She leaned back, hands in a surrendering motion. “There is an alternative, although I don’t think you’ll like it.”  
  
“Requesting a transfer?”  
  
“ _I_ could talk to her.”  
  
\---  
  
“Hey, Christie, can we talk?” It had taken some time to find her, locked in her room, and I could already see the _dread-anticipation-fear-shame-humiliation_ through the door.  
  
“OK,” she said, voice trembling, and I thought she might have been recently crying.  
  
I girded my loins, turned the doorknob, and entered once more into the breach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Christie. The only thing worse than realizing your teenage crush is on an adult empath is having Assault be the one to break your heart.


	35. Day 39.35 : That Magic Touch

**That Magic Touch**  
  
“You wanted to talk, Chris?”  
  
I stood in my poor facsimile of ‘at attention’ in front of the Director’s particle-board desk, trying to do things the polite way. “Yes sir.” He nodded, a bit wary, _concern-curiosity-impatience_. Fine, I’d get on with it. “It’s about your kidneys, sir.”  
  
A raised eyebrow, sudden flare of _defensive-concerned-anger-impatience_. I steeled myself, prepared my outline in my head like a bizarre Powerpoint.  
  
“I have Caduceus’s power past one hundred percent, sir. Before you say no, please let me present my case.”  
  
He gave me a thin-lipped expression, a tight nod.  
  
I counted off my points on my fingers. “Since Caduceus is a member of New Wave, I understand there might be a conflict of interest in accepting his healing. As a member of the Protectorate, I would introduce no such issue.” Another finger. “While my ‘healing tech’ is relatively untested,” I resisted the urge to pull air-quotes, as they’d detract from my professional demeanor, “as part of the contract written up with Caduceus they can be asked to monitor the repair of your kidneys with it being considered part of ‘testing’, no obligations attached.” A third finger. “And this monitoring would ensure only the requested repairs would be done, with no fear of any side effects.” A fourth. “This would only be a restoration of your kidney functions. Getting in fighting shape again would be all on you, but I have no doubt you could do so on your own if given a chance.” A fifth and final finger joined the rest. “And frankly, sir, you’d be able to do your job better if your body worked as well as the rest of you.”  
  
A sixth, uncounted point, thrown in for bonus measure, and so he wouldn’t have to call M/S protocols on me for being _entirely_ out of character. “And it’d _also_ mean you could drink to forget all the shit you have to deal with on a daily basis. Sir.”  
  
I tried not to beam as I waited for his response. It was a good argument, and I’d had help polishing it. Minuteman was quite good at persuasive presentations, even without shoving a gun into someone’s mouth.  
  
The urge to beam faded as I saw his aura roil quietly around his head. His expression and posture hadn’t changed; he was still sitting and watching me closely. I lowered my hand, put it behind my back, waiting.  
  
“What I tell you does not leave this room.” It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. He paused, and I saw his aura shift a bit. Pretty sure that color was... trust? It filled me with an unexpected pride, making me stand up a bit straighter. We had had our differences, especially at first, but just like when they were nothing more than a fictional character, I found I respected Piggot. For all their faults, they did want what was best for the city.  
  
"Do you know how I lost my kidneys?"  
  
"No," I lied.  
  
"It was in the summer of 1999. Ellisburg.” I saw the hate and fury, dimmed by time, flare up in his aura.  
  
I nodded, debated looking surprised. Figured me being stoic was more believable.  
  
“Do you see where I'm going with this?" His eyes were hard, but I didn’t get the feeling they were directed at me. Bad memories. Couldn’t blame him. Half expected this response.  
  
"You" — _don't say 'are afraid', that won't go well_ — "don't trust me." Almost said ‘parahumans’, but that would be a bit too on-the-nose. Besides, he worked with us every day. If he let that get the best of him he’d be no better than fanon.  
  
"It's not you.” I could see he (mostly) meant that, which was (mostly) touching. “I'm just justifiably cautious when it comes to parahuman abilities pointed my way. I hope you understand."  
  
I nodded. I did understand. Had to try anyway, though. He deserved that much. “Yes sir.”  
  
He shifted, his aura doing the same. Looked across the desk at me, barely taller than him even while standing. I saw a measure of respect, even appreciation there. “Thank you.”  
  
I nodded, again, then felt the invisible spotlight of his attention return to his work. I was being dismissed. Before I left, I considered adding that the offer was open, but… well. He knew that.  
  
Worth trying.  
  
\---  
  
“Hey, Hotpocket. Got a second?”  
  
I saw Denise’s grin first, answered in kind with a smile of my own—then noticed the _fear-anger-hope-despair_ flashing her aura like police lights. We were in the halls between Piggot’s office and my lab, another gray, featureless corridor lined with fake potted plants and misleading signs. I was surprised she’d tracked me down so quickly, but I supposed this conversation was unavoidable.  
  
“Sure thing, Timesnatch.” Tried to keep the smile on my face.  
  
Hers was still fixed in place, but it was telling she didn’t pretend to laugh at the familiar nickname. “There’s a conference room just around the corner.” She gestured with a thumb down the corridor where she’d come from. “Follow me?”  
  
I did, heart still sinking in my gut from the Piggot conversation. I had hoped this chat would go better. Or, better yet, be avoided altogether. I wasn’t so lucky.  
  
She slipped into the room, labeled “Fire 8B”. A larger conference room, with a giant screen on one side, a curved array of polished wooden tables and uncomfortable seats. No windows, no other exits. At least she let me stand by the door, turning around to face me. All trace of good humor in her face was gone, and I almost didn’t recognize her.  
  
With a plastic smile on my face I didn’t feel, I let her gather her thoughts.  
  
Denise stood there, breathing a little heavily, clenching and unclenching her fists. I felt uncomfortably aware of her Striker power for a moment, but that was foolish. She wasn’t a threat to me. Even if she was several inches taller than me ( _goddamnit_ ).  
  
“I never told you. About my mom.”  
  
I suppressed a wince. Suspicion confirmed. Still, I had to play dumb. “Your mom?”  
  
“She was on the list. For Caduceus. Lower priority. Been on the list for a year. Non-critical.” The words were staccato, firing off like bullets. “Until yesterday. I went to the hospital and she had a clean bill of health. Complete remission. Said Caduceus had come by. With you.”  
  
I tried to keep my expression neutral. “I’m… glad to hear that.”  
  
“Micah says I’m being paranoid. But she wasn’t high on the list. You bumped her up it. Why?”  
  
Time to play the ‘technically true’ game. “You just said, you never told me about your mom. And I don’t even know your last name.” Probationary Protectorate member, of course. I had to visit every leukemia ward in the city, and half-expected to see a “Mrs. Dynamite” on the list, even if that was most definitely fanon. Caduceus wasn’t too happy about being schlepped around, but it was part of his contract for ‘tech testing’, as I’d mentioned to the Director. I just made up some excuse about needing subjects for my ‘fuck cancer’ setting on my healamawhatsit. Sure, I also eradicated cancer down to the genetic level on nearly four dozen other civilians, but that was only a happy side effect.  
  
She scowled, her aura vacillating rapid-fire between _paranoia-suspicion-doubt-fear_ and _hope-relief-joy_ , with _exhaustion_ as a constant. “You didn’t know?”  
  
“Nobody told me, no.” The best kind of correct.  
  
Her expression twisted, a grimace torn between hope and fear. “And it’s gone? For good? Not just in remission, not something that will still kill her five, ten years down the line? No recursion?”  
  
This time my smile was genuine. “Eradicated. They are all as cancerproof as I could make them.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” she said, sagging in place, leaning back against a chair, knees shaking, one hand covering her face. I saw her tremble, what I could catch of her expression a rictus of disbelieving relief, her shoulders heave as she let loose a flood of emotion that made her aura burn like a bonfire. I stood there for a moment, wondering if I should give her a hug, if I should apologize—for what I wasn’t sure—or if I should just slip away.  
  
And then all of a sudden her posture shifted again, her hand wiping upwards to reveal a brilliantly shining smile. We both ignored the tears in her eyes, the way her knees still shook slightly. “Well, that’s a load off,” she said, voice only cracking slightly with the effort of restoring her mask. She fixed me with a look that conveyed all the emotion still shining off their aura like a beacon. “Thank you.”  
  
The tension in my shoulders fell, like a weight had suddenly been lifted. I found myself reaching forward, stopping. “Would you like a hug?”  
  
She only hesitated a little, smile brittle, mask still too freshly applied to conceal her tremendous relief. “ _Yes_.”  
  
We both pretended the other wasn’t crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you had the power to heal anyone with a touch—but also didn't want to give away the game of your hella-OP biokinesis—who would you heal in Worm?


	36. Day 40.36 : A New Era

**A New Era**  
  
It took almost a week before everything was in place. I got clearance for additional Tinkering hours, putting all the final touches on _my very own power armor_ , getting the color scheme and design cleared by Legal and Image, and trying it on at least once before the big day. D-Day, if you will.  
  
The first time I was wrapped up in my armor, it felt like I was on the receiving end of a full-body hug. Everything was custom designed, built, and fit for my body, such that it was. Range of movement, flexibility, heat distribution, weight distribution, balance, degree of strength enhancement with contextual limits; every factor checked, double-checked and triple-checked by three different Tinkers and a very harried panel of tech reviewers.  
  
Four steel cylinders, each a foot long and three inches thick, stood out from my back. Like stubby dragonfly wings, they could shift individually, or all splay out and lay flat so I could sit in regular chairs. Each corresponded to a power module: kinetic, electric, thermic, and radiant. This was _not_ an armor to bring to a Behemoth fight, but against non-dynakinetics it offered a staggering array of options to deal with opponents. The entire outer layer was formed of interlocked hexagons an inch across, each capable of independent pivoting and targeting should need arise. Every single one connected to the main power module distributor, channeling whatever function was needed for the circumstances.  
  
It broadened my frame, my shoulders, all swooping curves and elegant lines. As diagnostics ran, I could see each individual ‘scale’ of my armor shift, catching the light like mermaid scales. Topped off with blue and yellow like my first costume—for branding consistency, of course—I was a shining paragon of technology and heroism.  
  
The important thing was, I felt powerful in it. Invincible.  
  
I sighed, a low, long sound.  
  
Then I flexed my fingers, rolled my shoulders, and stepped out of the lab ready to take on the world. Kid Win whooped and cheered, Dragon beamed, and Armsmaster… Armsmaster grunted, a small grin on her face. This grunt was the simplest, but often the rarest: ‘good work’.  
  
This time, I didn’t _need_ Image to tell me to smile.  
  
\---  
  
Of course, I then spent the next hour—barring flight time—doing nothing but standing at the ready on a rooftop overlooking Medhall headquarters, getting photographs taken of me and trying not to fidget.  
  
Was it bad I was actually hoping Kaiserin would flip out? That I was looking forward to a rematch?  
  
I could surely be forgiven for wanting to see the fruits of my labors up close and personal. To see her face when the BBPD kicked down the door—although they probably just knocked—with a warrant in hand, ready to send her whole villainous career crashing down around her ears.  
  
It wasn’t unreasonable of me to want to stare her down, destroy everything she built, to tear her Empire founded on hate and exploitation into tiny little pieces. ‘And Jesus said unto them, See ye not all these things? verily I say unto you, There shall not be left here one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down.’  
  
God, I hated New Hampshire Nazis.  
  
Unfortunately, it was not to be. Surrounded by flashbulbs and shouting reporters, forgoing the mocking courtesy of a jacket over her head to preserve some shred of anonymity, Maxine Anders strode confidently to the waiting police cruiser, even sparing a brief grin for the waiting crowd as if to say ‘this is all a misunderstanding, I’ll be back in the office by noon’.  
  
Not if I had anything to say about it.  
  
\---  
  
Then came the press conference.  
  
More flashes, more shouting, more cameras. Even with the peace of mind my armor granted me, I was still grateful Armsmaster and Director Piggot took point. As planned in advance, they gave the lion’s share of the credit for the arrest to the Brockton Bay Police Department. A careful concession, aimed at preserving the lie that the unwritten rules meant anything. Unpowered humans investigating tax fraud and corruption, taking down a CEO for funneling money to the gangs, hooray for the little guys.  
  
I was fine staying out of the limelight, although I did get a lot of photographers wanting to capture my new armor, my new look. I was proud of myself for showing my teeth in something that actually resembled a smile. I even laughed off a reference to my first patrol, kept my voice from shaking as I promised I’d worked the bugs out.  
  
It helped that I could fry all of their cameras with a flick of my finger.  
  
It helped that Velocity stood by my side while Armsmaster was on the mic, for all the slightly awkward atmosphere that had come between us since that conversation a week before.  
  
It helped that I was floating a foot off the ground, so I could see over most of the crowd.  
  
It helped, it helped, it helped, but I still breathed a deep sigh of relief when it was all over.  
  
Even if it did mean I had to actually take off the armor. Without having even thrown a punch.  
  
I did take a moment before doffing my heroic persona to look at myself in the mirror and—for the first time—I could say the words without feeling like I was lying through my teeth.  
  
“This is who I am now.” Glittering scales, powerful, adaptable. “I am in control of myself and my body.”  
  
Small, but measurable, incremental growth.  
  
\---  
  
There was a celebration. Possibly premature, although we had a preponderance of evidence. Harold and Other Robin drew the short straws and had to stay on shift—we promised to bring them some food to go in compensation—but everyone else in the Protectorate, plus the Director, got together for a damn fancy dinner downtown.  
  
It was a place of thick, plush curtains; of elaborate light fixtures and heavy tables made of a single piece of wood lacquered within an inch of its life; the kind of snobbery where the cheapest appetizers cost twenty dollars and the most expensive bottles of wine could cost upwards of two thousand. It was the kind of madhouse where you could see local celebrities rubbing elbows with elected officials and pretending not to notice high-priced lawyers. It was the kind of circus that exclusively had valet parking, but where the anti-paparazzi security detail was complimentary.  
  
It was the kind of place where—had I not been able to adjust my everarmor to mimic Ellen’s fancy dress—I couldn’t even afford the clothes needed to be allowed inside, much less a full meal.  
  
I missed my armor already.  
  
Unfortunately, what it was _not_ was one of those considerate fancy establishments with a smoking lounge. Or a smoking balcony. Or even a _bench_.  
  
So when I finished my third post-appetizer, pre-entree course—each plate smaller than _my_ palm—and apologized to Julian for having to climb over him to get out of the booth—because of course Ellen sat me between her and her poor husband—I ended up having to go out the side door. Through the kitchens. Into an alleyway. Where I had to walk another 25 feet to another sign. Where there was a single security floodlight and a bucket that might have once contained sand, now overflowing with soggy cigarette butts.  
  
Sometimes I felt more oppressed as a smoker than as a woman.  
  
Rarely.  
  
Kinda.  
  
Ok, no, cigarettes were still less likely to get me killed. Nevermind.  
  
I was still only halfway through my cigarette when I heard footsteps heading down the alley. I snapped my head towards the sound—Aegis’s power, enhanced, saw to my eyes, and the shadows swiftly lifted—and saw a figure approach. Shoes tapped slowly, unhurried, against the slick asphalt. Tall, somewhat gangly, dark suit jacket over one arm; the man approached my island of light in the former darkness.  
  
He flashed a smile at me, stopping a polite distance away. “Excuse me, miss. Can I bum a boge?”  
  
I was reflexively holding out my pack before I could think better of it. Old habits.  
  
As he took one, nodding in gratitude, I looked him over. Clothes seemed nice enough for the area— _what a bourgeoisie thought_ —if a bit worn. Five o’clock shadow, ring of hair around a broad bald spot. Unremarkable. What caught my attention, though, was the mixture of _interest-eagerness-anticipation-anxiety_ in his aura, strangely riotous despite his casual demeanor. It was making my stomach turn just looking at it.  
  
However I still waited, hand outstretched, to get my lighter back before heading back inside. Another old habit. Damn lighter thieves.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, taking a puff through a smile, cigarette held in his teeth. He made no movement to return my lighter. Of course.  
  
Before I could go back inside, though, he’d already lifted the jacket to reveal—  
  
“Your purse before you go, please.” He smiled, all teeth. I could see the sweat on his brow, the tenseness with which he held himself, his aura pulsing _fear_ and _excitement_ and _anticipation_.  
  
At my side, out of sight, my everweapon leapt into my hand. A small pistol, about the same size as the one now pointed loosely my way. _Too loud_ , I thought. It shifted again, this time with a silencer. I felt an odd sense of deja vu.  
  
“No,” I rasped, my throat suddenly dry. I couldn’t move to lift the gun. I wasn’t even looking at his. Just at his smile, brittle and false.  
  
He said something. I wasn’t sure what. My mind was full of razorblades and motor oil, too slick for thoughts to hold but every attempt catching edges.  
  
A part of me was disappointed that I froze.  
  
A part of me remembered official policy. Hand over the purse. Nothing in it was irreplaceable. Trackers in the Protectorate phone would likely have him arrested before he could pawn it. It wasn’t worth causing a scene. It wasn’t worth outing myself.  
  
A part of me was back in that other alleyway, terrified, desperately struggling to survive, to fight back.  
  
A part of me, however—the loudest—was _furious_.  
  
_How dare you._  
  
_How **fucking** dare you._  
  
_How fucking dare you point a gun at **me**. _  
  
My expression suddenly twisted into a snarl, my hand lashed out, flight launched me towards his face—  
  
There was a muffled _roar_ , a moment’s intense discomfort—  
  
A moment where the world seemed to hold its breath—  
  
With a gentle _tap-tap_ of heels on asphalt I landed, one hand still squeezing his throat.  
  
I could feel his every cell in my mind’s eye. The reflex that had him tense his hands. The spike of fear that made him try to pull away. The infinitely labyrinthian mass of neurons—that fat, thinking _tumor_ at the top of his spine—that somehow led him down the wayward path to his end.  
  
It was as simple as pulling a trigger.  
  
I paralyzed him, then flooded his amygdala and neocortex with absolute, undiluted, concentrated _terror_.  
  
A wheeze crawled out of his throat, reedy, a hiss of escaping air. The acrid smell of voided bowels filled my nostrils. His entire body shook, autonomic responses trying to flee, wrestling against my absolute control. His aura was brighter than I’d ever seen a person’s, and all one brilliant shade. It was almost beautiful; a lantern of emotion.  
  
I drew his face closer to mine, his eyes showing whites all around the iris, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. The movement was jerky, my domination of his muscles unpracticed, uncoordinated.  
  
I spat the words. _“Never. Again.”_  
  
Even as I spoke, my mind raced.  
  
A corpse would require uncomfortable explanations. I was probably already missed, my smoke break excessive, even for me. It would take too long to render him to slurry, send him down the storm drain.  
  
A flicker of will, and his brain was scratched like a record. A disconnect in the right fusiform gyrus. Prosopagnosia. Face-blindness. A smear in the prefrontal cortex, the specific details of what just happened blurred and warped. Tracks covered.  
  
A thought might have wiped his memory completely, but I wanted him to _remember_. Remember the fear. Remember what it felt like to be at the mercy of another. A lesson is learned, but the damage is irreversible.  
  
_“Run,”_ I whispered, and relinquished control of his muscles.  
  
He did not run, at first, collapsing in an ungainly heap. A meat puppet with its strings cut.  
  
But he did crawl. Away from me. It felt like a damn good start.  
  
I watched him leave for a minute longer, his crawling turning to scrabbling to a frantic shuffle by the time he turned the corner, away from his living nightmare. I wondered idly what his memory would put in my place, when he thought back on this encounter.  
  
My breathing gradually slowed. My heart— _hearts?_ —stopped pounding.  
  
I looked down, at the blood that had stopped trickling down my stomach. The wound had already scabbed over, a dense patch of twisted flesh striving to fill the gap. Bless you, Aegis. It would have been better if Dauntless’s motes in my everarmor had made it tough enough to catch the bullet, but I knew it would be a gradual process when I got it.  
  
A moment’s thought repaired the hole in my dress.  
  
Slowly—with a deliberate, casual stride—I returned to my dinner.  
  
I wondered if they would have mousse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did have mousse.


	37. Day 41.37 : Superman

**Superman**  
  
The terror still hadn't hit me hours later, watching the news cycle endlessly repeat the Medhall story. Everyone else who mattered was likely sleeping off the rich foods and celebratory drinks. I practically had the Rig to myself, but couldn’t help but feel like the television was too loud, even on mute. Apartment habits.  
  
I was expecting it. Had braced myself for it. The sudden certainty that I was going to get caught. That somehow what I’d done to that mugger would get back to me. That I’d have to explain to my teammates, my colleagues, my friends, that I’d broken a man’s mind. _Tortured_ him. For what? A purse? Objects, things I wouldn’t miss?  
  
And yet I felt nothing but calm satisfaction.  
  
I probed at the emotion like a loose tooth. Was it that I hadn't done anything wrong? There was some rationalization that it was… mildly excessive self defense. That he was threatening me with a gun. That I hadn't caused overly excessive damage, especially considering what I _could_ have done.  
  
It was flimsy. I knew it.  
  
I knew that there was a possibility I would be caught, however slim. But as long as I never did it again, I could probably gloss over the incident. It was an accident, sort of. Hardly justification for the Birdcage.  
  
A part of me was horrified, of course. But it was quiet. I wouldn't trust anyone with that kind of power—even myself—but it was there, a tool in my toolbox. That should never be used. Even if it felt perfectly justified. Because it was a gross violation of personal autonomy. Even if the target was an asshole. Because assholes were still—nominally—human.  
  
The panic attack never hit, but that didn't mean everything was right with the world. It still roiled beneath my thoughts, never quite breaking the surface.  
  
I could… ask someone for advice?  
  
Except I knew what they would say. They would undoubtedly echo the fear, the horror, the disgust that simmered quietly in the back of my mind, beneath the superficially calm surface.  
  
Nobody had reacted when I returned to the restaurant. Ate seven more tiny courses. Ignored Ellen's innuendo. Made small talk. My torso must have muffled the gunshot enough, or it had just blended into the background noise of Brockton Bay. It was as though nothing had happened at all. Just another unremarkable tragedy in a world where they were too numerous to count.  
  
I needed to go for a walk. Clear my mind.  
  
Made it outside the Rig.  
  
Flew up. And up. And up. Higher and higher until the force field bubble was a single blueish marble half-sunk in a field of deeper blue. Lights twinkling below no brighter than those above.  
  
My lungs heaved, at first. They adjusted.  
  
I was cold, for a bit. It passed. My eyelashes crystallized with frozen moisture.  
  
The sun rising over the gentle curve of the horizon didn’t provide any warmth. It just hid the lights down below, leaving the stars brilliant up above.  
  
My thoughts didn't clarify any. No grand revelations struck me with this godlike perspective. I still had the same conflicts between what I was working towards and how I was going to do it.  
  
But the view was nice.  
  
An external sensation impinged upon my consciousness. A faint, repeated buzzing.  
  
I pulled out my phone. Wiped the screen of frozen condensation. Read the notification.  
  
An appointment invitation.  
  
I laughed, the sound thin and wispy in the attenuated air.  
  
It was as good a sign as any.  
  
\---  
  
“A pleasure to meet you, Hotswap. I have heard good things.”  
  
“Thank you, Chief Director.”  
  
“Please, call me Robert.” A smile, perfectly natural. Modest without being humble. It said it was an honor he was bestowing upon me; one I should note and be grateful for, proud of myself for earning.  
  
I was in costume, but not my armor. The colors, but no tech, and a domino mask instead of the helmet. Business casual for capes, a different sort of suit and tie. Even the meeting room was fancier than the usual video conference rooms mislabeled throughout the Rig. A long, polished table just for me, with a view over the bay, just at the right angle not to show the Boat Graveyard. A single screen I could lie down in and not touch any of the sides. I smelled leather; probably the chairs. I was three minutes late trying to find the room. The man also known as Alexander didn’t mention it, but even that felt like a favor, a token of his esteem.  
  
I didn’t know what to say, so I sat in silence, trying not to shrink under the intensity of his gaze. Just the weight of his eyes was enough to pin me in place; not through fear, but in acknowledgement that I was in the presence of my betters. Even if a part of me knew I could equal, even surpass him—that I’d have to, someday, if I wanted to save the world—it sure as hell didn’t feel like it there, staring at his handsome, tanned face on the monitor.  
  
He picked up the conversation seamlessly. “Reports say the charges against Maxine Anders will likely stick. This is a huge coup for the Protectorate, for all the credit was shared with the local police.”  
  
I nodded. Nothing I didn’t already know.  
  
“As Chief Director, I am privy to certain confidential information kept even from Regional Directors. I am told—” he paused, shuffling papers and glancing down with long-practiced misdirection, “—that it was you who got that ball rolling. Your ‘Thinker bullshit’, as your superior so quaintly put it.” A smile, indulgent without being condescending. I was amazed Piggot put that in his report. Actually earned him a few points in my estimation, to be honest.  
  
A tap of a fingernail on wood, transmitted through the speakers, drew my attention back to the meat of the conversation. Right. Acknowledgement. The Chief Director’s smile widened incrementally. “This kind of insight is tremendously useful, Hotswap, if it can be verified consistently. I wonder if you have any other aces up your sleeve.”  
  
He waited for a response. I _made_ him wait for one, every second that passed eternal, timeless.  
  
“None I’m confident enough to share at this time, sir.” I was proud of myself for not letting my voice shake. Even if I had a certain view of authority, even with the distance granted by the screen, his presence was overwhelming.  
  
His smile shrank ever so slightly, returning to its earlier state. A point against me. I tried not to wince, tried to hold my ground.  
  
“You will not hesitate to inform your Director if you have another useful bit of information, I hope?” His false eye was really well hidden. No trace of the scar beneath one eye, either. Couldn’t remember which one was the one the Siberian had taken out. I glanced between them on the big screen, unable to tell, even with the absurd quality of the image.  
  
“No, sir,” I said belatedly, realizing he was waiting for an answer again.  
  
_This video chat could have come at a better time_ , I thought.  
  
Even independent of my current state of moral conflict, it was simply too soon. I wasn’t strong enough to deal with Cauldron yet. For the first time I wondered if I’d made a mistake, helping take down Kaiserin. I needed more time to gather power. To cement my footing before I tried to step onto the world stage.  
  
A movement drew my eye, my attention. He laced his fingers in front of him on his pristine desk and leaned forward, face growing on the screen slightly. His expression warmed, relaxing a bit, comforting.  
  
“You seem nervous, Hotswap. I am here to congratulate you, not reprimand you.”  
  
My mind raced, thoughts spinning. My mouth moved on its own. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“I just wanted to let you know your efforts have not gone unnoticed.” More false shuffling of papers, a quick glance downward, then meeting my eyes again through the screen. “Even more than your power—which I am told has considerable potential, perhaps even Triumvirate-tier someday—it is your drive and determination that’s drawn the attention of your superiors.”  
  
“Thank you, sir.” Right on cue, that time. Whatever else was going on in my head, at least my autopilot was working for once.  
  
He glanced away from the screen for a moment, then turned his attention back on me. “I’m afraid that is nearly all the time I had allotted for us today. Do you have any questions for me?”  
  
I opened my mouth. A thousand questions died on my lips. This whole call had thrown me for a loop, implications within possible hidden meanings within secret messages within subtle misdirections.  
  
Eventually I shook my head. Even smiled a little, miracle of miracles.  
  
Chief Director Robert Costa-Brown—Alexander—smiled back. “Keep up the good work.”  
  
\---  
  
It took me four hours to find my next target. A surprisingly long time for a lone woman, visibly defenseless, wandering around the wrong parts of town at night. I supposed I’d just gotten lucky, the night before.  
  
This time I didn’t make him shit his pants in terror.  
  
Instead I tried to change his mind. A slow, subtle change. Something that would manifest months down the line, as though from a natural, gradual changing of worldview. What _should_ have happened on its own, if the world wasn’t a raging tire fire. Empathy, compassion, patience, kindness.  
  
This one walked away calmly, memories altered but not wiped, brain relatively intact. A good first attempt at changing the world, one asshole at a time. Even gave me some useful information while we had our friendly little chat. I knew where to go next time.  
  
Once again I felt the satisfaction of knowing I was moving towards something, instead of away from everything.  
  
Small, but measurable, incremental growth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends Act II of HOTSWAP.
> 
> Discussion of Cauldron in this context is fine but please no morality debates or canon Cauldron arguments, yeah? Keep it relevant.


	38. Day 42.38 : Relentless Questions

**Relentless Questions**  
  
Ellen froze when I waved at her, walking past the break room to the lab first thing in the morning.  
  
A coffee mug—“Tinkers do it with gadgets”—hung suspended inches from her lips, still mostly full. Must have been still waking up. I mean, it wasn’t like I was a stranger to early mornings. Not sleeping had that effect on a person’s schedule. Being a Tinker didn’t help.  
  
Her hair was a bushy mess, her clothes were wrinkled; she bore all the hallmarks of a too-late night followed by a too-early morning. But what caught me off guard was the wide-eyed look she gave me, like I’d grown a second head.  
  
I did a quick mental review. Was I wearing clothes? Check. Hair not on fire? Check. Fly not down? Less of a concern now. Also check. I was out of ideas. I backed up to the doorway I’d waved to her from and gave her a quizzical look. “What’s wrong with you?”  
  
“You… you were _humming_ ,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. Her mug made a soft _clink_ as it hit the table.  
  
I paused, thought back. “I guess?”  
  
In a _blur_ she was right in front of me, stopping inches away. Her eyes met mine with a startling intensity, teeth bared in a smile. “You got _lucky!?”_  
  
I blinked. Gradually lowered the gun. “...What?”  
  
“You were smiling. And humming. You waved at me instead of flipping me off.” She checked off these details on her fingers, as though she were making some grand argument. “I know you weren’t this happy when you left work yesterday, so it wasn’t the Empire bust. So something happened between then and now that made you positively _giddy_.”  
  
I scowled at her. “Seriously? Can’t a guy just be in a good mood?”  
  
She bounced from one foot to the other, hands tapping together in front of her. “You’re just walking in, so it wasn’t a Tinker thing. Nobody new on the Rig, so it’s not someone you’re looking forward to seeing here. Or is it?” Ellen gave me a sly look. “Is it someone I know?”  
  
I threw up my hands, gun turning to green energy in mid-air before returning to my belt. “For fuck’s sake, no. I didn’t get _lucky_.” I wasn’t about to tell Ellen of all people why I was actually in a good mood. Or anyone, for that matter.  
  
Not that it stopped her from trying.  
  
My empathy and pity for Julian only deepened.  
  
\---  
  
“Robin! Thank god.”  
  
She looked up at me from her book, startled at my wide-eyed expression. “Chris, what—”  
  
“Just pretend I’m not here. If Ellen asks, you saw me head to the shooting range.” Without waiting for her to reply, I leapt over and behind her, hovering low behind the sofa. She craned her head to look back at me and I shooed her away, hissing, _“No! I was never here! Act natural!”_  
  
I could see the confusion in her aura battle with amusement and a certain baseline nervousness around me that I still hadn’t been able to explain. And then—  
  
“Hey, Robin!” _Shit shit shit she’s here don’t fuck me Robin swear to god_ —  
  
“If you’re looking for Chris…” I held my breath. “...she’s probably at the shooting range.”  
  
“Hey, thanks!”  
  
I waited until the footsteps faded before I exhaled, popped up and leaned on the back of the couch. I regarded my savior with a weak smile of relief. “You’re a saint, Robin. I could kiss you.”  
  
Aaaand there went her aura again. I could see her glancing at the door, ready to abandon her book. Hmm.  
  
“That’s... just an expression…”  
  
Robin took a deep breath, gave me a strained smile. “Right.” _Fear-nervousness-guilt-fondness-shame_ roiled in her aura, ugly colors. I took stock of her, noted her comfortable sweatpants, her loose shirt, socked feet tucked beneath her on one of Ellen’s old couches stashed in a conference-room-turned-impromptu-lounge. Not going anywhere for a bit. Figured now was as good a time as any.  
  
I slowly floated onto the couch, far opposite her. Tucked my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around them—as non-threatening a posture as I could imagine. Quietly, calmly, as though speaking to a spooked animal, I asked, “Hey, uh, Robin. Can we talk?”  
  
I could see her tense, ready to flee at any moment. Despite her fear, she stayed. For now. “Alright.”  
  
Taking a deep breath—as much as I could, in my position—I began, “I can’t help but notice you’ve been kind of... _nervous_ around me the last week or so.”  
  
She didn’t say anything, just watched me intently.  
  
“We’re coworkers, right? Friends?” I didn’t want that to be a question, but my voice crept up near the end. I was relieved to see her nod slightly. “You’ve helped me out a lot. Made me feel like part of the team. Hell, you held my hair while I threw up. That makes you a good one in my book. So if I’m doing something to make you feel uncomfortable, please let me know so I can do something about it.”  
  
Her jaw tensed and she looked to the side of me, staring at the television as though it would give her answers. It was off, screen blank. “You’re fine,” she lied, voice quiet. “It’s nothing.”  
  
I gave her a moment to elaborate. She didn’t. Fine then. I’d bite the bullet. “Is it because I’m queer?”  
  
Her eyes widened, and it was like I’d just casually dropped a racial slur into the conversation. “What? No! I’m not—it’s not—IswearIhavenothingagainst—”  
  
I held up a hand, interrupting her freakout. “It’s okay, it’s okay! I said it, not you. You’ve done nothing wrong and I haven’t accused you of doing anything wrong, yeah? You with me?”  
  
She gave me a shaky nod, still visibly ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.  
  
“I just want to clear the air between us. You’re my friend and I don’t want you to feel weird.” She didn’t seem assuaged. I tried to make things more blunt. “I’m not interested in you like that.”  
  
I mean, she was cute and all, but she clearly wasn’t into it, and I wasn’t _Assault_.  
  
Her aura deepened with _shame-embarrassment-regret-guilt-worry_. Not what I was going for.  
  
I flailed for a solution “If you have any questions, or—”  
  
“I’m ex-Mormon,” she interrupted me. I let her speak. “Utah born and bred. I grew up in that community, was a part of it. There’s whole branches of my family that won’t talk to me anymore. People I grew up with, had known my whole life, cut off all contact after I’d resigned. Even after all that, it’s… hard to change how I see... certain things.”  
  
Her voice was barely above a whisper. My hearing adjusted until I could hear her without leaning closer. I waited until she seemed like she was finished, then a moment longer, trying to think what to say.  
  
“I can’t say I know what you’re going through,” I said, after my third mental revision. “But I don’t think you’re a bad person for… having trouble changing your perspectives on things you were raised to see a certain way.”  
  
She settled deeper into the sofa, mirroring my posture until she was peeking back at me from above her knees, arms holding herself tightly. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be. I’ve had a lot longer to get used to the idea than you have.”  
  
We sat there in silence for a minute. I could see her aura settle to a low boil, then a simmer, and then a somewhat janky but ultimately stable mix of relatively neutral, maybe even positive colors.  
  
“Friends?” I asked, once I’d seen her seem to reach a conclusion in her thoughts.  
  
She gave me a small, somewhat embarrassed smile, then—  
  
“Hey she’s not at the shooting range, are you—”  
  
“I’M NOT SEEING ANYONE STOP ASKING LEAVE ME ALONE!”  
  
\---  
  
I found solace behind the ever-familiar, ever-safe blast doors of Armsmaster’s lab. My lab. Ellen was banned from Tinker workshops by long-standing regulation. I could breathe.  
  
Colleen was working on a halberd. The Mark 43C, with the inertial flail. I collapsed on the floor, exhausted, and she paid me no mind for a good five, blissfully uninterrupted minutes. Long enough for me to catch my breath, convince my heart to stop pounding.  
  
Then a grunt. This one meant: ‘You okay?’.  
  
I grunted back: ‘Fucking Movers.’ Yes, that had its own grunt, one both similar to yet subtly different from ‘fucking Tinkers’, ‘fucking Shakers’, ‘fucking Masters’ and so on. It took a discerning ear, but Colleen was nothing if not a professional speaker of the language.  
  
An inquisitive grunt: ‘Want to talk about it?’  
  
I replied with something closer to a whine: ‘Ellen.’  
  
She nodded, back still turned, grabbing a drink from the mini-fridge by her side.   
  
I was still gathering the mental energy required to stand—deciding flying was probably easier—when Colleen’s phone buzzed on the edge of the work bench. It slipped off the lip of the table into her waiting hand, and she unlocked and read the screen it with long-practiced ease. She paused.  
  
Then she gave another inquisitive grunt: ‘Curious.’  
  
I answered in kind, with mounting dread: ‘What?’  
  
Then—horror of horrors—Colleen turned, faced me, and— _with actual words_ —said, “Ellen wants to know if we’re ‘doing it’ right now.”  
  
My scream echoed throughout the Rig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life shippers are the worst.
> 
> And hey, completely sinking the ship with Robin!


	39. Day 43.39 : Changes

**Changes**  
  
“This is the Protectorate!” I roared, amplified voice nearly deafening. I was proud of myself for omitting ‘—bitches!’ from my declaration. It was a lot harder than I’d ever admit. “Stand down immediately! You _will_ cooperate!”  
  
While I was getting my Judge Dredd on, the Empire thugs scattered like roaches. A twitch of a finger hurtled me forward into the thick of them. Another switched modes as soon as I made a three-point landing, erupting lightning out from my armor in a hundred auto-targeted arcs of brilliant light, sending two dozen human bowling pins sprawling, tumbling as their legs and arms suddenly refused to cooperate.  
  
I couldn’t help but stand slowly from my heroic entrance. The effect was somewhat spoiled—or enhanced?—by the bullet pinging off the forcefield protecting my exposed lower face. Clearly someone thought they were being clever. I targeted them in my HUD without turning their way, the power modules on my back went _thunk_ as they shifted modes, and a laser burst forth from my left shoulder, causing a pained yelp as the gun superheated in the goon’s hand. I was scanning for powered threats; taking out minions was just checking off boxes.  
  
There was a rolling-thunder-but-too-close sound of Triumph’s sonic blasts to my left. Velocity blurred around, applying zip-ties. Honestly this was kind of overkill, but I didn’t mind the company. I just hoped we hadn’t gotten all worked up with the slow collapse of the Empire over a completely mundane safe-house bust—  
  
— _ping_ went my radar. Not my actual radar—that was more lidar anyway—but the _good_ kind. I hurriedly subvocalized in my comms, but by then the two giants stomping around the outside of the warehouse rendered the warning moot. I pivoted my weight, prepared to jump, and—  
  
—caught myself. “Velocity, you’ve got these guys?”  
  
She nodded a (very) quick affirmative. A smile. “Go nuts, girl.”  
  
I bared my teeth in a grin. “Console, Hotswap requesting permission to engage Huginn and Muninn.”  
  
“Copy, Hotswap. You are cleared to engage.”  
  
_Finally_.  
  
I blasted off through the wall of the warehouse—several feet to the side of the hole I’d made on my way in—and rocketed straight into Muninn’s unsuspecting, stupid giant face.  
  
The crater was totally worth the collateral damage report.  
  
\---  
  
Having my own apartment was totally worth the ribbing I got for getting it.  
  
Even if Other Robin was the only one free to help me move in.  
  
“I just think it’s really great that you’re taking these big steps,” she said, half-buried under an Ikea DELAKTIG sofa, assembling it without even glancing at the instructions. I was carrying another flat-pack box up the stairs, wishing I could just fly it to the top floor of the modest apartment building rather than having to maintain the pretense. Even hauling it up on my own required my new favorite trick.  
  
Thanks to the Nazi wonder twins, between my voicebox, beardomatic, and the eighteen inches of height I could get away with—before people started suspecting I was a crossdressing Womanpower moonlighting from New Wave—I was able to heft an eighty-pound flat-pack without people immediately thinking ‘cape’.  
  
It was the closest I’d been to my old self since I first arrived.  
  
I couldn’t quite put into words how strange it was that it felt more like a costume than my power armor did.  
  
“I was just tired of living on the Rig, is all,” I insisted with my now-almost-unfamiliar bass rumble, dropping the box not-at-all-petulantly. The floor creaked ominously— _whoops_ —and I made a mental note to be more careful.  
  
“Of course,” she agreed goodnaturedly. “Independence is important.” Her aura shimmered with _pleased-cheerful-confident-proud_.  
  
“It isn’t because I’m trying to hide anything,” I lied. I was just tired of trying to justify why I wasn’t staying at the Rig every night, especially with Ellen’s _incessant_ questioning. And I could only put so much of my Protectorate hero income towards Tinkering supplies—stupid regulations—so it wasn’t like renting this place would hurt my finances. Unsurprisingly, housing was dirt cheap in Brockton Fucking Bay. Even when it was in a moderately safe neighborhood and centrally located.  
  
“I can’t wait for the housewarming party,” she continued, picking herself up off the floor and clapping her hands free of dust. Her smile was wide, guileless, and warm, emotions totally in sync with her appearance. “We could make it potluck! I have a great eight-layer-dip recipe, we could invite our coworkers, I know a few good people from the the BBFD I think you’d get along great with, I can’t wait!”  
  
I frowned. Why did I get the feeling she both was and _wasn’t_ listening to me?  
  
She cracked open the next crate, smoothly pulling out shelves and panels. Over her shoulder, while I stood there trying to figure out what her angle was, she called out “Anyway, I brought coffee and donuts. Take a breather while I take care of this loveseat. You like apple fritters, right?”  
  
I shook my head, blowing out a sigh. She’d even helped me pick out the furniture; the set was both compact and reconfigurable, and she practically made a beeline to it without me having to say anything.  
  
Helpless in the face of her relentless cheer and thoughtfulness, I grabbed a fritter. It was delicious.  
  
\---  
  
“I believe in complete and full equality among all of the races and everyone else,” the white man said, “Because if you believe in anything other than complete equality, you are an idiot.”  
  
The bar was relatively empty, this early in the night. Judging from the smell and the slurring, this wasn’t his first drink. Or his fourth. I smiled politely, waiting for the other shoe to drop as I discreetly looked around for colors of interest or concern. Seeing none, I bit. “Ok, then. Say you're actually being honest about wanting equality. Why support people who openly hate and attack people of color?”  
  
He jabbed a finger triumphantly in my general direction. “In my belief people who constantly refer to non-whites as ‘people of color’ are themselves villains. We should not refer to those kinds as different. Just because their skin color is different does not mean we should ever quantify them as different than white people.”  
  
How egalitarian. How very clearly ignoring my question. He went on, spreading his hands and nearly spilling his beer. “I am fully aware that non-Empire folks do not approve that point of view. And I am completely willing to listen to your point if you are, here.”  
  
Still too many people around. I lowered my voice, despite wanting to shout. “If you have a group of people systematically and institutionally oppressed by society you cannot say any effort to improve their status is ‘treating them as not-white and lesser’ or ‘favoritism’. Saying ‘everybody is white’ isn't being _fair_ , it's completely disregarding all the challenges not-white people face in America.”  
  
His voice took on a lecturing tone, just on the edge of condescending. “I remain very much so disinclined towards the belief that African-Americans are systematically oppressed. The Great Society has existed since the 1970s. Even the Vietnam War could not have put a hamper in that. There are minorities who are in my college and my life whom I absolutely love and respect—”  
  
I cut him off. “Do you remember the girl who had to be escorted by national guard to the first mixed-race elementary school? She turned _sixty-five_ this year. Don't tell me ‘slavery was outlawed so we're all on an even playing field’.” Shit. I was raising my voice. The bartender glanced over. I resisted the urge to blast him with _apathy-indifference_.  
  
The man continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “I would find it absolutely hard to believe that they have overcome systemic racism to get into the positions that they are currently in. Because to imply that they have overcome systemic racism is to imply that all of their achievements have been bullshit. They got to where they were because they were astounding and amazing people. And they got there because anybody who was white who was competing for the same jobs we're simply not as good as them. Yet the people who are in these jobs are all absolutely amazing people and I love them for it. They have not overcome anything so much as they have simply been amazing human beings.”  
  
I stared at him. I would not shout. I would keep my voice calm. I would not draw attention to myself.  
  
I was disguised, slightly taller than myself, with an everarmor wig and a simple jeans and jacket combo. Practically invisible in this part of town. My verbal sparring partner was tall, lean, with a high-and-tight military-style haircut and a leather jacket ‘ironically’ adorned with racist paraphernalia. Together we took up a small booth at the back of a quiet drinking hole in a slightly poorer part of town.  
  
With more patience than I would have in nearly any other circumstance, I explained, “It takes _minutes_ to find actual facts showing the systematic oppression of black people in America. The school-to-prison pipeline. Gerrymandering. Take _two seconds_ to look up the ways Republicans are trying to strip people the right to vote. Look up the reservations who had their housing IDs not count as valid registration to vote. Look up how poorer areas have almost no access or opportunity to vote. _Fucking google it_ ,” I hissed.  
  
He sipped his beer, aura unruffled. I continued, “And you're being horrifyingly obtuse about ‘not overcome anything’, Jesus Christ. You're even stripping these people you ‘respect’ of their achievements by ignoring what they had to deal with.” I leaned forward getting into his space. “Look up ‘driving while black.’ Look up the number of unarmed black people killed by police in the last six months. Look at how news treats white domestic terrorists as ‘troubled people’ while black, unarmed murder victims ‘had done marijuana once’.”  
  
The man interrupted me again. “Even though we are arguing, I still want to remind you that I love you and will do anything I can to remain friends with you.” My eye twitched. It hadn’t taken more than a light touch to get the man to trust me like this, despite being complete strangers.  
  
I scoffed. “Yeah. ‘Will do anything’, except anything that matters, _fuck_. You've proved how much that actually means.”  
  
He looked pained. It didn’t _mean_ anything, of course, the emotions shallow and dim. He wouldn’t look up anything I mentioned. He wouldn’t do the bare minimum required to validate anything that might challenge his beliefs. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d said anything, as though I was just talking to myself. Empty white man tears about how important equality is and how much he loved his close trans friends; nothing but talk.  
  
I was only distantly keeping attention on the bar around me, now. Nobody seemed to be interested anyway. “Alright. Against my better judgement. If you'd met a polite Nazi—” not exactly impossible in this part of town, particularly this bar “—who openly wished for the genocide of the people you loved and cared about, including those trans people you 'respect' so much, would you have issue with them as a person? Would it bother you that, if they got their way, they'd happily murder anyone who wasn't their ideal?”  
  
Looking me straight in the eye, he asserted, “It would not. Because my belief is that once my side of the argument wins, we will have no more need with that kind of people. During a theoretical civil war I will gladly accept their help, but after that civil war I will gladly throw them out and away.” I boggled at him, mouth open in disbelief. “I understand how this opinion can be offensive and I apologized you for it in advance,” he added, as though that excused any of it.  
  
With another deep, calming breath, I tried to confirm what I was hearing. “...You're actively, and knowingly, siding with Nazis. You think Nazis are the lesser evil here.”  
  
He took another swig. “Yes. I honestly don't believe Nazis really exist in any particularly useful form anymore,” he said with complete lack of irony in a white supremacist bar, where Empire members openly walked around with swastikas and several people of color had been beaten or killed within a block in the last week alone. “As far as I am concerned, being called Nazis is simply an attempt of the Left to dehumanize the Right, and thus make it politically correct to incite violence against them.”  
  
I banged my head against the beer-stained table.  
  
“I seriously do not believe that actual National Socialists make up any particular sizable voting block. Most people in the Empire are just average Americans like you and me. And frankly, I am of the opinion that the only thing that unites people against the Empire is that they hate people who are white.”  
  
I lifted my head an inch, then dropped it on the table again.  
  
He hesitated. “I sense that you are getting angry, and once again I would like to state that I absolutely love and respect you.”  
  
I sat up slowly, shaking my head. “No, it’s fine. It’s good, even. I wanted to talk to you, an average Empire supporter, not in the gang, not a cape. I wanted to see if I was right to seek out those who weren’t actively trying to attack me in the street.” I reached out a hand, and he took it, grasping it tightly, as though he could impress upon me his absolute determination to keep me as a friend so long as he didn’t have to do anything at all that mattered. Even his aura was mostly earnest, which was the most disturbing part of it all.  
  
I made small changes. Subtle ones. As an experiment, he’d served his purpose. He wouldn’t lead me to any high-ranking Empire members, or give me insights into their movements or locations. He was just another pawn in the political machine.  
  
But that didn’t mean I had to leave him exactly as I’d found him.  
  
His expression changed slightly, a new energy entering his voice. “H-hey, actually.” His eyes unfocused, then refocused on me, as if seeing me for the first time. “Those things you mentioned. Are they really as easy to find as you said?” I nodded, making a few additional tweaks. He sneezed, looking briefly confused, as though he’d never done that before. Damn touchy medulla oblongata. “Do… do you have any articles I could read?”  
  
I smiled.  
  
It felt good being the change I wanted to see in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally using that power armor!
> 
> And moving out of the Rig!
> 
> And, unfortunately, finding someone who only reinforces their bad choices.


	40. Day 44.40 : Unheeded Warnings

**Unheeded Warnings**  
  
“This may feel a bit weird,” I said. Trooper Gonzales grimaced in pain, nodding her assent.  
  
I lowered my hand, the angrily spinning, buzzing facade of Tinkertech we’d used to draw out Kaiserin vibrating my arm as I touched the red, raw skin of the PRT agent. First, deaden the nerves. Her expression immediately fell slack, and I went through the methodical process of replacing burnt flesh with healthy new cells.  
  
There was a row of quietly chatting troopers behind me, and a row of suffering—or sedated—but stable troopers ahead of me. It was considered a ‘good day’ to have so many survivors reach home base—horrible burns aside—after running into an angry Lung. I’d already patched up Minuteman and Velocity from the failed raid on an ABB distribution hub, but at least I felt bad enough about that favoritism to extend the treatment to the mundane troops. Even if I had to maintain the ruse of Tinkertech to do it.  
  
“There,” I said, releasing my hold on her biology. It felt good, getting practice in with Caduceus’s power. The eleven-plus charges had, after some experimentation, proven to pull tiny bits of biomass out of nowhere. Handy when some of the trooper’s flesh had sloughed off. Also handy was the iron stomach I’d developed working with the original biokinetic, because I was pretty sure this would have had me off my lunch a few weeks ago.  
  
She flexed her knees, marveling at the unblemished skin framed by charred fabric.  
  
“You’re a goddamn miracle, Hottie.” Oh what a fun nickname _that_ had been to discover. At least her aura was free of any insult or condescension. Just squaddie things, I supposed.  
  
I was going to just move on, but… hell, I wasn’t Caduceus. I could take a second. Everybody was stable for now anyway. “Hey, no problem, Trooper Gonzales.”  
  
She slapped me on the shoulder, hard enough to stagger my balance. I refrained from retaliating as her aura was still completely _relieved-grateful-exhausted_. “Hell, anyone who keeps me from months of recovery can call me Dottie.”  
  
I shrugged, grinning wryly. “Hey, you’re the one charging into battle against a rage-dragon with thirty pounds of nonlethal gear and a prayer. Least I could do to thank you is help you get back up so you can do it again.”  
  
Maybe that wasn’t the most polite way of phrasing that. Nevertheless she laughed, slapping me again, even harder this time. I had to use my flight to keep standing and all my self-control to keep from flinching. I nodded politely, starting to move on to the next one, but she grabbed my arm with surprising strength. “Wait—”  
  
At my unavoidable flinch she immediately drew her hand back— _apology-regret_ in her aura—and said, “Look, I know you’re playing it down and all, but you’re a goddamn lifesaver in my book. The whole squad thinks so.” She lowered her voice, barely audible. “You could’ve left us to rot; they don’t call in Caduceus for grunts.” I winced, considering I’d almost done just that, had I not been feeling somewhere between charitable and guilty. “Even if it’s ‘voluntary testing of experimental Tinkertech’, we owe you. You need anything from us, anything at all, you just say the word, alright?”  
  
I nodded, touched. Almost let her go with a word and an empty promise.  
  
But then I remembered something important. Something that had been restricting me since I had first joined the Protectorate, now no longer an issue thanks to my brand new apartment. Something that I would have _really appreciated_ having had access to on my worst days.  
  
I leaned in conspiratorially, and she followed suit, expectant, eager to help.  
  
“You know where a guy can get a dime bag around here?”  
  
She smiled.  
  
\---  
  
“With the recent capture of three more Empire capes after Kaiserin’s arrest, Coil’s group and the ABB appear to be attempting to expand their own territories to capitalize on this weakness. Hookwolf’s Chosen have been reported frequently in the north end of the city, while The Light have fallen back, instead making guerilla strikes against other gangs’ holdings.”  
  
I paid close attention to the screen, watching the more volatile—and vulnerable—areas light up on the map. Armsmaster paused, waiting for Assault and Battery to finish whatever side conversation they apparently thought was more important than planning our patrol routes and raids.  
  
I elbowed Assault in the ribs none-too-gently. _“Pay attention,”_ I hissed, ignoring her look of betrayal.  
  
Armsmaster nodded almost imperceptibly my way, then continued. “Regarding other players in the city, we’ve seen minor hit-and-run thefts, primarily against gang operations, by the villainous group known as the Undersiders. They are not currently considered a priority at this time. Additionally, there have been rumors of two possible new Triggers; a telekinetic Shaker of some sort on the south side of the city, suspected not to be Rune only because he had been spotted around the same time fighting in the north; and a Master or Stranger, discovered through routine keyword searches for police reports involving unexplained instances of missing time, memory loss, and abrupt, unexplained changes in behavior. Patrols will adjust to devote what personnel we can to the south end for the former, and Master/Stranger protocols will be heightened to code yellow in response to the latter.”  
  
Hmm. The Shaker sounded like… Whirlygig? I hadn’t realized they’d triggered pre-Leviathan. Or maybe it was one of the unnamed independent capes casually mentioned but never explored in canon. As for the latter, that was worrying. It was _definitely_ too early for Imp, and Regent didn’t really mess with people’s memories. The only other Masters in the bay controlled ghosts or insects, neither of which fit.  
  
Something to keep an eye on, whether it was a threat or an opportunity.  
  
...Wait. They weren’t talking about—  
  
“Hey, Chris! You got weekend plans lined up yet?” Other Robin asked as we were leaving the conference room, derailing that train of thought. I blinked, trying to remember my schedule. Tinkering, of course. A patrol or two. Then...  
  
I glanced back at Ellen, a few feet behind us, who winked and gave me a thumbs up.  
  
“No,” I insisted, and felt a small amount of satisfaction at seeing Ellen’s face fall. “What’s up?”  
  
“Great!” she said, all enthusiasm and cheer. “Do you feel like volunteering a little?”  
  
_Not even slightly._ I was about to say as much, but first glanced back at Ellen again, looking predatory, waiting to pounce on any glimmer of hope. That made up my mind. “Yyyyes. Yes, I’d love to.”  
  
\---  
  
Oh my god _doggos_.  
  
They were everywhere, barking, napping, eating, chasing each other around the fenced in area. Most were genuinely happy, little blobs of perfectly straightforward emotions. I saw many of them cheer up further whenever Other Robin got near, although some of that probably had to do with the food she was hauling around. Every bowl got a carefully measured amount, different food for different breeds, sizes and ages, each group carefully chosen to eat in their shifts so as to not cause a pupper riot.  
  
I held an actual Shiba Inu. Like, a real dog, not just a meme. Complete with derpy face and wagging, curling tail.  
  
Even for a small dog, Emperor Meiji sprawled across my chest, his head resting on my shoulder as my arms supported his behind. I could feel his tiny chest rise and fall as he panted with excitement, wanting to chase every other dog in the shelter if they so much as blinked. I had been assigned to keep him from doing just that, but I suspect Other Robin just gave me that duty so I wouldn’t get in her way while she arranged dinnertime. I was just a _tiny_ bit extremely overstimulated—in a good way, for once.  
  
I’d half-expected to see Hellhound here, but his face was known to the public—even Other Robin would probably had said something if they’d crossed paths. And I supposed not every dog shelter in the city had to be visited by the premier expert in the field of bork science.  
  
I practiced not using my power, despite the physical contact. Just observing, not touching. Definitely not touching the Emperor’s brain. That was verboten. No mind alterations on good people, and that included all dogs, because all dogs were—empirically proven—good people.  
  
I mean, I did fix the hip dysplasia before it manifested. A victimless crime.  
  
And maybe none of the doggies I pet that evening had to worry about heartworms anymore. Nobody would notice. And it was still good practice, staying away from brains, right? Paragon of self control.  
  
I was only a tiny bit high, anyway.  
  
For all that I didn’t do anything except pet dogs while I was there, Other Robin still thanked me for volunteering at the no-kill shelter with her. In a startling change of pace, I could only agree with her, thanking her for the invitation.  
  
I felt good. Not just chemically good, but _actually_ good.  
  
Between my work-work going well, my side-work showing promise, actually being able to smoke again for the first time in months, and having played with the best animals on god’s green earth for several hours, everything seemed right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is going so well! Surely nothing can ruin Chris's day now!


	41. Day 44.41 : Surrender

**Surrender**  
  
I had immediate regrets.  
  
When Ellen called me one last time (honest) to see if I’d be down to celebrate her husband’s birthday with her, I thought, _hey, I’m in a good place. They’re both attractive people. What’s a little casual fun between consenting adults?_  
  
My first red flag should have been when she was completely silent for a full ten seconds before an ear-piercing squeal erupted from the phone, damn near deafening my Aegis++ enhanced hearing. I’d noticed after twenty-plus charges that some of the adaptations were not only enhancements—instead of replacement functions—but that they were sticking around a lot longer than they had when I first started. I was still trying to figure out what exactly that meant—hopefully I wouldn’t go full Crawler—but all Caduceus would tell me was that my biology was getting increasingly weird.  
  
And apparently I’d just volunteered that bizarre body to Ellen’s tender mercies.  
  
The dressing was simple enough, thanks to the everarmor. Convincing Ellen I wasn’t comfortable getting a full Brazilian was a trial. Shaving myself was _awkward_. Nothing like running a razor around extremely sensitive, not entirely familiar bits to make you regret your life choices. Still better than letting Ellen do it, though she did offer. Legs were easier—I’d done that before. Armpits they’d just have to deal with.  
  
I did get a haircut and dye job, though—something I’d been meaning to do for a long time. I’d considered asking to go full bald, but… I’d missed having cool hair when male pattern baldness had hit. It wouldn’t have looked right on this body anyway. In the end, my hair was once again half-shaved, half-blue-green, draping over one side of my face.  
  
Dinner was… straightforward enough. If a bit awkward.  
  
Ellen kept refilling my glass. I didn’t stop her, although whatever Aegis’s power did to my liver—livers?—helped keep me from making too big an ass of myself. When she left for the bathroom—and I committed the cardinal lady sin of not accompanying her—Julian took the opportunity to speak frankly with me in what was probably the longest continuous conversation we’d had since I’d arrived on Earth Bet.  
  
He was dressed sharply in slacks, dress shirt and tie, a tailored jacket hung behind his chair in the fancy restaurant. Not ‘celebrating the Empire’s inevitable demise’ fancy, but definitely a special occasion kind of place. I was pretty sure that the drinks Ellen had been feeding me alone would break three figures. We didn’t talk about any of that, though. Instead he gave me a considering, somewhat conspiratorial look once Ellen had left earshot.  
  
“So, uh… Chris.”  
  
I gave him a somewhat unintentionally half-lidded look, feeling a bit toasty. His aura was aquamarine, and I couldn’t quite remember what that meant. “Hmm?”  
  
Julian sighed. "I know what Ellen is like when she gets her mind on something. Believe me, I _know_. So as usual I need to be the responsible one and make sure we're all on the same page here as far as expectations go."  
  
I looked down at my drink, swirling it in my glass. I wasn’t really a scotch kinda guy, but it was growing on me.  
  
He continued, “What are you hoping for tonight?”  
  
“A good dicking?”  
  
He choked on his drink. I laughed, only slurring a little. “I don’t know. Boundaries are good, buuuuut maybe Ellen has a point. Get drunk and see what happens.” A pause, a moment of reflection. “And y’all’re already married, so no risk of, you know,” I gestured vaguely, “ _that_. Again.”  
  
Julian’s expression was pained, his aura swirling prettily. “I just don’t want to do anything any of us will regret later, you know?”  
  
I nodded sagely. “Yeah.”  
  
And then Ellen was back, and soon carrying the conversation for the three of us. I let the alcohol take the edge off, and then some. She was a lot funnier this way, her personality quirks more endearing than irritating. Made me wonder how often Julian got drunk, to end up marrying the woman he’d fought so hard to bring to justice.  
  
The hotel room was in the same building as the restaurant. Which was good, because I could only go so far walking by the time dinner ended, and flying was seeming far more convenient.  
  
“Hooooly shit,” I exclaimed, too-tight dress transforming into a pair of swim trunks at my subconscious demands. Ellen giggled, and Julian followed behind us with a small duffel bag he’d stashed earlier, presumably containing their own bathing suits. I did float into the air then, and just barely resisted entering the enormous jacuzzi with a cannonball, instead settling for a more sedate sliding into the water, feeling the jets and heat soak into my bones.  
  
Ellen and Julian joined me soon after, making soft gasps and sighs as they adjusted to the heat that I’d quickly grown accustomed to. Conversation slowed to a trickle, but I was too busy melting like candle wax to notice precisely what was going on on the other side of the tub. I slid down into the water until my head was completely covered; an idle thought, seeing how long I could hold my breath.  
  
Oh hey, I could breathe water. Neat.  
  
I felt a tap on my arm, a flash of biology racing across my mind’s eye for an instant. It startled me out of the water, eyes rapidly blinking as I noticed Julian was gone and only Ellen remained, smiling wickedly. “You ready?”  
  
“I guess? Sure,” I offered, thoroughly discombobulated in a not-unpleasant fashion. A good day, good food, good drink, acceptable company and a nice relaxing soak did wonders for my anxiety. I felt like I was actually in a good headspace for the first time in ages.  
  
\---  
  
All that came crashing down when time came to enter the bedroom.  
  
Scented candles filled the air with vanilla and flickering light. Rose petals lay scattered between the entrance to the room and the over-large, silk-sheeted bed on the far side. One recumbent figure lay half beneath the silks, and I could see the outlines of limbs and muscles and other things. He was leaning on one elbow, waiting with a half-smile. _Damn_.  
  
His aura swayed between _excitement-nervousness-affection-anticipation_ and… uh. Not chartreuse, the other one.  
  
Hands touched my shoulders from behind and—after a slight delay while her biology flashed through my mind again—I twisted away, slower than I’d have liked. I turned to see…  
  
_Damn._ Ellen. She… she really had a figure. And her lingerie didn’t so much leave anything to the imagination as make my imagination feel inadequate compared to the real thing. Her colors were a lot muddier, but if anything they were even redder than Julian’s.  
  
Between the two of them I felt a hot twisting in my insides, familiar yet strange. Like a house where you you’d been in for a while but still weren’t sure what all the light switches connected to. And the connected garage was missing. And there weren’t as many floors.  
  
“You’re a little jumpy there, Chris,” Ellen half-purred, half-slurred. “No need to be nervous. We’re all friends here.”  
  
She placed a finger on my collarbone, and I could see her _everything_. The flutter of her heartbeat, the hormones and endorphins and alcohol coursing through her bloodstream, the chemical signals cascading through her body, the Christmas tree of neurons I could just see patterns in if I focused a tiny bit harder—  
  
I pulled away again, and she gave me an exaggerated pout. “What’s wrong?”  
  
I licked my lips, too dry. “Biokinesis… distracting.”  
  
Her eyes widened slightly in understanding. “Ooh… so when I do _this_ —”  
  
Another gentle touch, this time the back of her hand, skin soft, lightly grazing my cheek, filling my mind with crystal-clear images. I shuddered, and she withdrew the hand. A thoughtful, considerate look was swiftly replaced with one of sly triumph. “Well. Latex is a thing, right?”  
  
It took me a moment to grasp her meaning, and by then my stupid everarmor had already leapt ahead of my conscious decision-making, wrapping me neck to toe in the firm yet flexible grip of what could only be described as an indecently tight catsuit. The sensation of it cling-wrapping to my every surface was distracting enough on its own without her soft little coo of appreciation and the flare of… cerise... in her aura.  
  
“I can work with this,” she declared, voice soft and breathy. “What do you think, Puppy?”  
  
I glanced at the dimly-lit figure I’d half-forgotten about on the bed and shifted my weight—which made me shudder again as the bodysuit glided over some parts and clung to others as I moved. That heat in my stomach had radiated outwards until I could almost feel it in the roots of my hair, and it only got worse as I heard Julian say, simply, “ _Wow._ ”  
  
The simple impact of that word and the undeniable emotions that came attached to it struck me harder than I’d expected it to.  
  
He found me—honestly, unabashedly, genuinely—attractive. He thought that I, this body, was beautiful.  
  
My mind blanked.  
  
His expression, aura, dimmed slightly, colored with _concern-worry_. “Are you alright, Chris? You’re... shaking.”  
  
Was I?  
  
I felt a soft pressure on my back, hair drape on the back of my neck where the suit didn’t cover. Warm breath in my ear, not quite touching. “She’s just cold. Let me help.”  
  
Hands glided over my bodysuit, making my breath come in short gasps. My brain short-circuited further, unable to form coherent thoughts, only small noises as Ellen explored, fingertips tracing circles and swirls. My world was shades of cerise. Two sets of heartbeats pounded in my chest and stomach, _thump-thump-thump-thump_ , blood roaring in my ears, deafening.  
  
I demanded my body stop trembling. It didn’t listen.  
  
I could still do this. A little bit of nervousness was normal.  
  
I wanted this. I needed this. I was doing so well.  
  
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. And Ellen’s hands felt so damn— _weren’t fucking helping goddamnit._  
  
Under my breath, I spoke the words, a mantra, a lifeline, the words ruined by involuntary gasps. _“This is who I am now. I am in control of myself and my—”_  
  
“Ellen. Stop.”  
  
That wasn’t my voice. I didn't say that. I was up for this, really. I could—  
  
“But puppy...”  
  
_“No.”_ Julian’s voice was hard, uncompromising. The hands withdrew, reluctantly, petulantly, and I sagged where I stood, held up only by my flight. I didn’t want them to go but... _fuck_. Julian made to get up, and stopped at the edge of the thin sheet, holding it in place in his lap. “Not tonight.” His voice softened, kinder, more gentle. “Let’s get Chris home, alright?”  
  
I couldn’t bear to see the _concern-worry-pity_ in Julian’s expression.  
  
_Goddamnit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> So close.


	42. Day 45.42 : Safe

**Safe**  
  
I didn’t see Ellen or Julian when I went into the Rig the next day. I didn’t look too hard.  
  
Last night I’d laid myself out on my own bed—in my own quiet apartment, staring at the ceiling—until the sun rose. No hunting, no experimentation, no progress made. I’d taken steps backward, if anything. It was _frustrating_ , seeing all that work undone. My muscles were piano wires, every movement making them sing with tension. But it wasn’t the almost-familiar sense of fear, or the jumping at shadows, or the double-and-triple-thinking of seemingly innocent statements or actions. This was a confused tangle of embarrassment, shame, guilt, and anxiety, leaving me unsure what exactly the problem actually _was._  
  
Performance anxiety? It happened. No big deal.  
  
Ruining Julian’s birthday? Honestly it would have been so much worse if I’d freaked out halfway through.  
  
Dysmorphia? I’d been doing so much better, felt so much more comfortable—or at least tolerant—in and of my body. To the point that pretending to be otherwise felt even more unfamiliar, like I was wearing two layers of disguises over whatever genderless _thing_ lived inside me beneath all the meat.  
  
Powers? I’d healed the troopers without incident; I’d petted puppies all afternoon just fine; why did Ellen’s touch throw me off so much? Was whatever my body was turning into too inhuman to feel comfortable around actual people anymore? How many hearts did I _need_ , anyway?  
  
I found myself in my lab, my safe place, not entirely sure how I’d gotten there.  
  
Armsmaster was out. That wasn’t too unusual; if she wasn’t Tinkering or patrolling, she was exercising. And I’d seen some personnel walking around—pretty sure—so it wasn’t like I was having a Vanilla Sky moment, alone in an empty world. Worst case scenario I’d see everyone at the 9 AM status meeting. Two hours was plenty of time to Tinker, take my mind off of my meat shell problems. Distractions. Finding solutions to things that actually _had_ solutions.  
  
The blast door opened with a soft _beep_ and a familiar hiss of hydraulics. I half-turned, hands buried in the guts of my electric module for my power armor, and was relieved to see the familiar outline of Colleen, silhouetted in the light from the hallway. Returning to my work, I greeted her with the usual grunt.  
  
She didn’t reply, instead closing the door behind her. I didn’t think much of it. When she was really deep in thought—and her aura had been a comfortable _determined-interested-thoughtful-driven_ , which was good enough not to suspect M/S scenarios, even if I hadn’t sensed her power first—she sometimes forgot other people existed. I’d have to make sure she ate today, in case Dragon forgot to remind her as well.  
  
I heard and felt her approach me, past the micro-fabbers and armor racks, ignoring the diagnostics displays, disregarding the rows and rows of unlabeled drawers full of components and tools. Anyone else and I’d be concerned, but this was Colleen. She probably just wanted to see what I was working on. I shifted to the side so she could see, already preparing to point out the denatured compounds separating the different electron packet distributors, but she spoke before I could.  
  
“Chris. Do you trust me?”  
  
I blinked up at her, her face solemn, aura _determined-thoughtful-concerned-driven_. She was dressed for Tinker work, comfortable sports bra and loose, flame-retardant pants; non-slip work shoes; hair pulled up in a massive bun. One hand rested on the workbench beside me, fingers tapping in the way they did when she was deep in thought. Nothing raised any alarm bells in my mind, so I answered honestly, without thinking. “Yes, of course. Why?”  
  
She leaned against the workbench, just at arm’s reach, inspecting me like she would a component with unknown tolerances. Something to be handled with care, but still reliable enough not to be afraid of exploding.  
  
“Julian spoke with me this morning.”  
  
Blood drained from my face, my throat suddenly tight. _Oh god, last night was supposed to be between us_. I couldn’t imagine what Colleen must have been thinking about me… except I could see no trace of judgement, disgust, or anything else like that in her aura. I forced myself to breathe, to keep my voice steady. “Oh?”  
  
“He expressed some concerns. Regarding something I’m afraid I’d let slip my notice.” That was _disappointment_ , but the shade was off— _self-disappointment_? But…  
  
“He didn’t tell me any details—” _thank sweet merciful fuck_ “—but when pressed, he couldn’t remember a single time you had received casual physical contact since he’d known you. To my dismay, I could only recall a handful of examples myself.”  
  
My mind raced. “It… wasn’t without reason,” I began, hesitating to even bring up a topic like that in what had proven to be my true home on Bet. My inner sanctum. My fortress of Tinkertude.  
  
She shook her head, undeterred. “I did some research. Extended or forced touch starvation can result in extreme anxiety, hallucinations, bizarre thoughts, temporary senselessness, and depression.”  
  
I opened my mouth. Closed it. What a Colleen thing to say—yet what was she implying?  
  
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. I ask you again, Chris. Do you trust me?”  
  
This was a whole _new_ species of confusion. I scanned her face, her aura, for some sign of… I didn’t know. Ugly colors? Deception? Intent to harm, or betray? I got nothing. Just earnest, determined helpfulness. She waited patiently for me to reply. When I did, it was a small sound. _“Yes?”_  
  
She studied me intently for a moment, then smiled, her aura lighting up with _pleased-proud-determined_. Hints of another color I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “I’m glad. Please return to your work. I’ll be back in just a moment.”  
  
I sat there on the stool, thoroughly discombobulated. Looked down at my work, seeing parts that didn’t make sense, didn’t fit together in any logical order. The hell had I been working on?  
  
I stared blankly at it, dimly registering the sound of a small sliding drawer opening, closing. A thin stretching, snapping sound. I’d just about started to recognize the combination redistributor coil/heat sink in the module before me when I felt Colleen step into place behind me and—  
  
Hands. On my head.  
  
I jumped, but there was no flash of biology. She pulled her hands away, put them just forward enough so I could see the thin medical gloves out of the corner of my eyes, then slowly, tentatively, returned them to my scalp.  
  
And started scritching.  
  
My eyes immediately started to flutter and droop. I sagged with a sigh, leaning forward until my elbows rested on the workbench on either side of the partially disassembled module, project instantly forgotten. Her hands—carefully tended to, nails short but sharp, only slightly dulled by the gloves—followed me, dug into the surface of my hair, gently massaging the recently-reshaved skin on one side of my skull. Slow, determined movements.  
  
I made a small noise, involuntarily. Not quite a gasp or a sigh.  
  
I was fully sober, completely aware of my surroundings. The comfortable hum of the lab, the smell of metals and oils drifting in the air, Colleen’s presence behind me, warm and undemanding and understanding. It surrounded me like a warm blanket, like hot cocoa on a cold winter morning. This was a safe place. I could let go.  
  
I didn’t realize I was crying until I tasted salt, felt wetness on my cheeks. Colleen must have noticed at some point as well, because her hands stopped, and another little whine escaped my throat. Her hands started scratching again. One gently ran its way up the back of my head, base of the neck to widow’s peak, and I shuddered. I kept shaking, shivers running up and down my spine, until they gradually passed.  
  
At some point I had started to lean back, pressing my head into Colleen. Her hands adjusted, skirting around my ears, finding the sweet spot at the nape of my neck that—oh goddamnit. I was drooling. And moaning.  
  
My eyes fluttered open, embarrassed, and I saw her looking down at me, faintly amused and… blushing?  
  
I tried to sit up, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand, but she gently but firmly pulled be back into her. I didn’t put up too much resistance, but I still felt the need to apologize. Words were too hard to form, but grunts? Grunts I could do: ‘Sorry about that’.  
  
She grunted back, the sound vibrating in her chest, my head pressed against it: ‘Don’t mention it’.  
  
Then, with a small smile, she added, “I haven’t heard sounds like that since you first tried on your power armor.”  
  
I buried my face in my hands… but didn’t stop her from continuing to run her fingers through my hair, gently scratching my scalp. Eventually my arms fell, soggy noodles too weak and uncoordinated to hide my shame.  
  
Distantly I noticed the video monitor turning on… and then immediately turning back off.  
  
When Colleen started to hum, though—tunelessly, a little off-key—that’s when I slipped into sweet, blissful sleep.  
  
\---  
  
I woke up slowly, one sense at a time flickering to awareness, like switches on a board. Darkness and warmth. The smell of machine oil and ozone. I was still in the lab, lights off. A blanket covered me, and beneath my back I felt the cot I hadn’t used since my first few weeks, propped up in the corner.  
  
Stretching, feeling my vertebrae pop like bubble wrap, I took my time sitting up. Looked around slowly. A bottle of water lay next to the cot, and a protein bar, and a note. Twisting off the cap, I took a swig and almost choked on it when I scanned over Colleen’s neat, blocky handwriting.  


> “Chris,  
>   
> You slept through the status meeting. I told them you were sick.  
>   
> Your patrol isn’t until five. Make sure you’ve repaired the armor module by then.  
>   
> Also, consider syncing the capacitor cycles. Might help with the resonance feedback issues.  
>   
> —Colleen”

  
Oh bless your sweet Tinker heart, Colleen.  
  
I munched on the protein bar—ooh, it was one of the good ones, with coconut—and floated back to the workbench where my baby lay, ready to be reassembled. With a bit more love and attention to hold it together better.  
  
_I should do something nice for Colleen_ , I thought. Tinkertech flashed through my mind, but I set that aside. She seemed so happy when I brought in Kaiserin—but knowing Lung’s (male!) name didn’t help me much. I wondered if I could…  
  
Humming, I got back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww yeah, head-scritches.


	43. Day 48.43 : Sacrifice

**Sacrifice**  
  
I experimented.  
  
With Caduceus’s power, inflicting blind terror was easy, instinctual.  
  
Scrambling thoughts and short-term memories took a bit of focus.  
  
Long term, subtle personality improvements required minutes of concentrated effort.  
  
Digging around through their thoughts and memories—or planting false ones—was the work of uninterrupted hours, and differed enough from person to person to make it very difficult to streamline. I had to start over once when a Protectorate raid drew a bit too close to the location I’d chosen to interrogate my ABB lieutenant in, and the damage left from stopping the process half-finished took most of the night to reverse. It wouldn’t do for my test subjects to tip off Lung, after all, either through their altered behaviors or their absence.  
  
So I was careful. Thorough. Patient, even though I wanted to just fly around the Docks until I felt Lung’s power.  
  
By day I fought the remnants of the Empire, slowly collapsing like a flan in a cupboard. They were getting more desperate, hemorrhaging numbers, both capes and unpowered supporters. They ran from me, more often than not—both satisfying and frustrating—so I played support. Healing the injured. Spent time with the troopers and my coworkers alike. Did the whole social thing.  
  
By night I climbed the ABB chain of command, from street toughs to field leaders to middle management to lieutenants. Since everyone got home safe and sound, I managed to avoid drawing much attention, even if their temporary disappearances and—if I was rushed, or sloppy—inconsistent memories were sometimes noticed.  
  
I adopted different disguises. Varied my height, clothes, wigs, makeup, backstories. Beards and male voices were peppered in as necessary. Sometimes I got inside info from the men I’d abducted and drilled for secrets that helped sell my stories. ‘I was sent by Tan to help move the shipment’, or ‘Lee’s boy Mao told me to check your security before the Oni shows up’. Mixing things up like this I was able to visit two dozen safehouses, storehouses, transfer depots and stashes in two nights, some of them miles apart to confuse anyone trying to put the pieces together.  
  
It was both terrifying and exhilarating. I wasn’t worried for my life anymore. Even without my armor I could take most things these baseline humans could throw at me without flinching. Instead I was playing a game of cat and mouse, hunting down my prey without being spotted, without my cover being blown. I could only scramble so many minds before witness accounts got out, if I really fucked up. Like that one brothel that—well, it couldn’t be pinned on _me_ , anyway. I got all the women out safe, that’s what mattered.  
  
Ideally, though, I would take my targets elsewhere so I could work uninterrupted. My apartment was centrally located, inconspicuous, and poorly monitored by security cameras or guards, so for big game—the really important ones—I’d make sure I worked somewhere I wouldn’t have to fear being observed.  
  
Unfortunately, no plan survives contact with the enemy.  
  
Or, in this case, my allies.  
  
I knew something was wrong when I got a ping on my power sense as I exited the stairs to my floor.  
  
Four pings. And my enhanced hearing picked up low talking, shuffling feet, and someone saying, “—oh, hey, I think that’s her now.”  
  
I froze. As did my meat puppet—Lao the head distribution guy, direct report to Lung—who was shuffling beside me in a power-induced stupor.  
  
_Fuck!_  
  
Had I gotten caught? I recognized Other Robin’s voice. Why were they waiting at my apartment? I’d been so careful!  
  
Before I could clear Lao’s mind enough to trust him to walk straight, let alone find his way home without assistance, I heard footsteps and—  
  
“Hey, Chris!” _Shit shit shit shit shit._ “We were wondering when you were going to show up. We’ve been waiting twenty minutes.” Her smile was guileless and light, despite the accusing words. “Who shows up late to their own housewarming party?”  
  
My—  
  
_Oh goddamnit._  
  
“Right! I’m sorry, I lost track of time and, and—”  
  
“Who is this? Oh! Did Chris actually make friends outside of work? I’m Robin, nice to meet you!” Bright and perky she held out her hand, waiting for Lao to shake.  
  
Lao stared at it. I hadn’t reactivated that part of his brain yet just give me another few seconds—  
  
“He-he doesn’t speak much English. We met on the way here. He offered to help walk me home to my apartment for my safety ha ha such a nice guy but he’s got somewhere to be—”  
  
She lowered her hand without drawing attention to it, smile untroubled. “Are you sure? Even if he’s just a good Samaritan there’s plenty of snacks and drinks, we could thank him for his troubles. Other Robin might even know a helpful language or two, it’ll be great!”  
  
Damn her enthusiasm _no!_ My hand squeezed the back of Lao’s neck where I’d been resting it, trying to restore as much motor function and higher mental capacity as possible. Connect, patch, rewire, this was supposed to take hours I’d just have to slap it together and pray he held together long enough to get out of sight.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, as loudly as an American tourist speaking to someone who just said they didn’t speak English. I leaned in closer as his eyes rapidly became less glassy, hissing _“Go home. Be good.”_  
  
And then I practically shoved him down the stairs. Thank fuck he caught himself, then began shuffling away under his own power. I spun back to Other Robin and clapped my hands, forcing a broad smile on my face and praying her _trusting-hopeful-excited-pleased_ stayed put. “So! Housewarming party!”  
  
A trickle of _suspicion-doubt_ entered her aura and I almost hurled myself out the wall right then and there—  
  
“You didn’t forget about the party, did you?” she accused, amusement taking the edge off of her words.  
  
I tried not to sag in relief. “...Maybe?”  
  
She patted me on the shoulder as she led me to the other heroes standing awkwardly around my locked front door. Everyone was in their civvies; Colleen in jeans and a “Strikers get their hands dirty” T-shirt I knew was a gift from Ellen, carrying a crockpot with some sort of stew; Robin had on a flowy skirt and white blouse, and wielded an enormous casserole beneath an overflowing basket of biscuits; Ellen wore a shirt that read “I’m with tsundere”, with Julian wearing a matching “I’m not with you, baka” shirt he was probably forced into at gunpoint, the two carrying a crate of alcohol and mixers and two bags of ice, respectively. There was also a large tupperware resting on the floor, visibly layered ingredients hinting at Other Robin’s highly renowned dip.  
  
“We sent out, like, four reminders to everyone.”  
  
“...I’m on Tinker standard time?”  
  
Colleen gave me a sage nod while Ellen rolled her eyes, whinging. “Come on, the booze isn’t getting any lighter.”  
  
The party was… nice, actually. Even Director Piggot made an appearance, although I made him smoke on the balcony. Other Robin’s friends were largely strapping young men from her work as a volunteer firefighter, but they were well-trained and housebroken, and came with party games I’d never heard of that were—I begrudgingly admitted—surprisingly entertaining.  
  
It was only after everyone left, hours later, that I realized I’d never actually found out where Lao lived.  
  
I could only hope I’d find him again before someone else did.  
  
\---  
  
I was getting better at moving them. Not touching their brains yet—having learned my lesson—just their muscles. Keeping them fresh, no hurried work, and if interrupted I could just scratch their memories and release them relatively unaltered. It made them stumble a little, a bit drunk, which I used to my advantage. Nobody asked questions if an apparently inebriated couple made their way between buildings, away from the light and noise of busier streets.  
  
I had a warehouse already picked out. Not too far, too moldy to have many squatters, isolated enough nobody would hear the occasional involuntary gasp—ok that was sounding _way_ dirtier than I’d intended, even in my own head. I laughed a little. Jee-Han laughed too, which I hadn’t intended, only making me laugh harder.  
  
It was like that, two good friends laughing together in a dark alley late at night, that I noticed a power _ping_ at the end of my range. Thinker, a strong one. I looked ahead, curious, a brief spike of alarm even as a suspicion grew. He wasn’t hard to find, standing by himself at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted by the odd still-working streetlamp and the neon lights of a tattoo parlour just around the corner. His aura _screamed_ his terror, but his posture was casual. Like he was just waiting for a bus instead of about to shit his pants.  
  
It was the slight quiver that gave him away, though, besides the aura. The way he kept his knees locked so they wouldn’t shake.  
  
Or maybe he was just cold. His costume wasn’t quite a catsuit— _hooray double standards_ —but it was tight and probably not very insulated.  
  
He didn’t move as I shuffled closer, new friend in tow, one hand on the back of his neck.  
  
I could hear his breathing—the Thinker’s—tense and shallow and quick, like he was afraid the movement of deeper breaths would draw my attention. Like my vision was motion-activated, and if he held still enough I’d pass him by.  
  
I smiled at the imagery. I always did love Jurassic Park.  
  
He held his breath, and I could see his aura flare in response to my expression. He smiled back, a rictus, a mockery of a smug grin.  
  
I broke the silence. He jumped a little.  
  
“A present? For me?”  
  
I chuckled, a light sound. Ah, he didn’t like that one bit, his aura flaring _anger-betrayal-frustration-terror_.  
  
“A message,” he said through gritted teeth.  
  
Ah, Coil. I wondered when she would get in touch. It was only a matter of time, I supposed. My smile widened. “I think I know what this message is.”  
  
_Sacrifice_. A judas goat, tied up, ready for the slaughter. It meant she wasn’t quite sure what my power was, perhaps. Or she planned on giving me her catspaw wholesale, to copy at my leisure. Take him off her hands, one less troublemaker ready to backstab her at the earliest opportunity. Thanks, but no thanks. I didn’t need the headaches, literally or figuratively.  
  
“You’ve been sloppy,” he declared haughtily, smile taking on a brittle edge. “People are on the lookout for a Stranger, or should I say Master?”  
  
“Fishing for information, Tats?” I scanned around, looking for other emotional auras, any other movement or sounds of breathing. Nothing. We were alone. Probably not an ambush. I would choose my words carefully regardless.  
  
“The ABB are on high alert. If you couldn’t shapeshift, I’m sure they’d have laid a trap for you by now.”  
  
I resisted the urge to correct Tattletale—but that was the point, wasn’t it? Instead of answering I dragged my buddy forward, towards him. He flinched, but refused to run away. Brave. I thought about Jack and the little Glasgow smile she’d earned in canon. I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d be mouthy.  
  
Slowly, one shuffling step at a time, I made my way around him.  
  
I reached out, could practically hear his heart try to hammer through his ribcage. Rested my hand on his shoulder, a reassuring gesture.  
  
I also—ever so slightly—brushed his neck with the edge of one finger. An _accident_. The faintest touch, quickly moved on. He closed his eyes and shuddered, mind undoubtedly racing, going in circles, trying to figure out if he could detect changes with the same brain-meats I might have just scrambled. I could be subtle, after all. I was getting more so.  
  
I didn’t do anything to him, though. I thought it’d be funnier that way.  
  
“Tell her I’d be happy to meet her at her house tomorrow morning. I’ll even bring donuts.”  
  
He waited until I was out of a normal human’s range of hearing before gasping for breath, falling to his knees.  
  
I was having way too much fun.  
  
Jee-Han laughed again, in jerks and starts. Together we laughed into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another scene I had planned out when I first started writing the story. Poor Tattletale.


	44. Day 49.44 : Destiny

**Destiny**  
  
True to my word, I showed up at Tammy Calvert’s house bright and early the next day, donuts in hand.  
  
It was an ordinary, slightly rundown home in the southwest end of the city. A newspaper lay on the front lawn, wrapped in plastic and wet with morning dew. In the driveway sat an older model Prius, and across the street, a family was walking their kids to the bus stop. I checked my phone—yeap, right address—and stepped forward.  
  
I felt a power. Had the right general shape. Grabbed it.  
  
I paused for a second at the front door, then knocked once, twice.  
  
A thin, tall, dark-skinned woman opened the door. Coarse, close cropped hair, trimmed eyebrows, thin lips and a strong chin. She didn't _seem_ that thin, but then again she wasn't in a bodysuit; she was dressed in a button-up shirt, khakis and a silk tie. She was _quite_ tall though.  
  
“Ah, Chris. A pleasure. Please, come in.” She stepped back and to the side, opening a path. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand.”  
  
I followed her in, noting how she turned her back on me without any noticeable spike or anxiety or fear.  
  
The world _split_.  


> In one timeline I stepped forward and upward, reached out faster than she could pull away. Grabbed her hand. Knocked her the fuck out, her lanky body falling awkwardly in a heap on the floor.

A smile crept on my face in both timelines, satisfied.  
The world collapsed abruptly. Either she had very good backup or a single charge of her Thinker power was weaker than I’d hoped. Easy enough to test.  


> Another split. This time I slammed my suddenly-enlarged fist into the nearby closet door, the quickest avenue of attack. It collapsed in on itself, releasing… brightly-colored helium balloons and a shower of confetti? A sad trombone sound, playing from a small, tinny speaker?

I stopped in both timelines, giving her a flabbergasted look.  
  
She paused, half-turned, one eyebrow raised. Then she gave me a smile that was far more natural and warm-looking than I had ever imagined a woman with her reputation could make. "I thought it would be funny."  
  
I squinted at her, not sure if I was amused or not. She certainly was, along with _satisfaction-confidence-pleased_.  
  
Realization dawned. She was _testing_ me. Seeing if I’d grabbed her power or not. I hadn’t opened the closet door in my safe timeline, but she knew that I knew that she’d prepared that in advance… I wondered if this was even the first time we’d had this conversation. Had she sent Tattletale out earlier, in another discarded world?  
  
...She couldn’t have known I’d go for the closet first.

> I split time again. Dashed down a hallway, kicked down a bathroom door. More balloons. This time there was a whoopie cushion behind the door, squashed flat when I made my dynamic entry. Jesus.

In the real world I was following her to a small coffee table, where I rested my donuts. A variety pack, because I didn’t know what she’d like. Her house was nice, if a bit messy. Few personal touches, a bit of dust, a few dishes piled up in the sink, no real sense of style or personality. She sat at the table, and I sat across from her.  
  
In front of me there was a suspiciously familiar-looking iced coffee. I took a sip. Yeap. She’d done her research.  
  
She seemed content to let me speak first. That, or she was leading the conversation in another timeline. No weird emotional swings to indicate they were going any better or worse than this reality, though.  


> I kept splitting off universes to check the house, finding more balloons and increasingly ridiculous scenes behind every new door. A lit-up disco ball in the linen closet. A trail of dominos on the utility room floor that looked like they would draw a black and white image of a snake when fully collapsed—the timeline ended before I could confirm. A blow-up doll dressed like Dauntless propped up in the master bedroom which really gave me pause. Even in the kitchen, throwing open the cabinets—

I jumped, and saw _amusement-satisfaction_ in her aura, a smile on her lips. “Found the airhorn?”  
  
I scowled at her, but even then the edges of my lips were curling up without my input. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so... _whimsical_.”  
  
She shrugged easily, every movement casual, unworried. “I take my amusement where I can get it.” She paused. “And it seemed a better sign of good faith than hidden claymores.” Well _that_ was sobering.  
  
Fair enough. “Can’t really see you taking the time to set all of that up.”  
  
Her smile widened. “I made Tattletale do it.”  
  
A mental image crossed my mind of her watching him laboriously set up the dominos, inflate the balloons, and send him off to buy a blow-up doll. I couldn’t help but laugh.  
  
Coil smiled as she sipped her coffee, smacking her lips slightly in satisfaction. “A word of advice? When you sit there making faces for a straight minute, it's not hard to figure out what you're doing."  
  
"Oh." Right.  
  
She waved it off. "It took me some time to get used to it myself." This whole ‘good-natured amusement’ thing was weirding me the fuck out. I was expecting a lot more Bond villainess. She had an underground lair for fuck’s sake! “To business? We are both busy people, you and I.”  
  
I took another sip of my coffee, then grabbed an apple fritter from the box, and simply nodded, all attention on her. “I’m interested to hear what you have to offer.”  
  
Steepling her fingers, her expression grew more somber. “You are seeking out Lung. As a secondary goal, you are dismantling brothels and sex trafficking operations wherever you find them.” Both true, and not surprising. “I can help point you towards Lung. I can also draw attention away from you by dismantling those parts of both the ABB and the Empire. A new Master shaking things up is newsworthy—Coil stripping her opponents of revenue streams is business as usual. And rest assured I would do my best to find work, homes, counseling, and any other support the rescued victims would need. I'm well aware of how you would react if I failed in this regard."  
  
“And in exchange?”  
  
“You leave me alone, but otherwise keep doing what you are doing. Your work serves both our interests.”  
  
I leaned back, thoughtfully munching on the pastry. It was a good deal. If I didn’t know her power, I’d say it was a _suspiciously_ good deal. "How many timelines did it take to arrange this compromise?"  
  
"Sixty-eight.” The grin returned, her voice wry. “But who's counting?"  
  
I couldn’t help but grin back. Something niggled at the back of my mind. "Dinah?"  
  
"Dean Alcott—” _whoops_ “—is safe from me.” Her aura was free from any sort of deception—not that that was perfectly reliable. “I can make subtle pushes towards the Wards, should you wish."  
  
I went down the mental checklist. "And the Travelers?"  
  
"Disposed of by Accord, with some difficulty" Good. One bomb defused.  
  
I was impressed. "You're thorough."  
  
_Satisfaction-vindication-confident-pleased_. "It pays to be."  
  
"Where is your other self now, anyway?"  
  
"Bermuda."  
  
"Nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not terribly different from how it turned out in CU, but there are notable changes. Either way, Coil's willing to cut a deal.


	45. Day 51.45 : The Closing Noose

**The Closing Noose**  
  
They called me “Scramble”. After the distorted memories my victims were left with, unable to recall any detail of what I looked like or the time we spent together. I was surprised the name wasn’t taken. Master 7, Stranger 4. They weren’t even confident enough in how my power worked to give me a Striker rating.  
  
Some of my earlier mistakes, my rushed jobs, my experiments—they’d come to light. Most of it came from the brothel incident. I’d been terribly sloppy in my anger. Thankfully, none of it was remotely connected to me.  
  
What _did_ bother me were the cases I thought had flown under the radar. It turns out minds are more complicated than I thought—some of the long-term alterations were bubbling up too quickly, spurred on by unpredictable environmental factors. One or two psychotic breaks. Nothing important. A few internal gang conflicts as neo-Nazis suddenly grew a conscience and slew their former colleagues, mostly attributed to the collapse of the Empire and basic human selfishness. They weren’t even entirely sure the cases were related.  
  
I clearly needed more practice.  
  
I watched everyone’s aura carefully during our briefings. My teammates bore various shades of _concerned-worried._ Armsmaster was _frustrated-angry_ as she read the morning news. I felt a little guilty, but that was soothed by the knowledge I’d have Lung in her hands before the week was out.  
  
I noticed with suppressed satisfaction that Coil’s raids on brothels and human trafficking by other gangs was noted by the PRT as well. Nobody was sure what led to that sudden shift in priorities, but it was suggested that Scramble was possibly working in concert with Coil, which was… not inaccurate.  
  
Speaking of the devil; Coil’s power grew exponentially with each passing day, fueled by a quick morning’s visit, chat and shared coffee. From ten seconds, to a hundred, to a thousand. Sixteen minutes. It saved me a considerable amount of trial and error in my Tinkering, being able to test two hypotheses at once, destructively testing my components without concern of loss of time or materials.  
  
Things were moving along nicely.  
  
\---  
  
It was after our third visit—in the midst of another morning status meeting—that the other shoe dropped.  
  
“I’m pleased to report we may have a lead on Scramble,” Armsmaster said, _eagerness-vindication-frustration-pride_ flaring in her aura. I perked up while trying to seem no more interested than normal. She continued, “One of his victims was recovered wandering the streets downtown. A police officer flagged him down for suspicious behavior, managed to bring him in.” A mugshot flashed on the screen. _Lao._  
  
He looked different. More gaunt, bags under his eyes, hair wild and greasy, and the clothes he wore that night were nowhere to be seen, replaced by prisoner orange. Maybe he wasn’t even recognizable if one hadn’t spent hours stalking and slowly disassembling his mind piece by piece. I glanced around the conference room. There was—maybe—some recognition… but no alarm. Dauntless seemed distracted, thoughtful—not alarmed or upset. It took my a moment to realize Armsmaster had paused, and looked up at her to see her staring back at me. I froze, but then she said, “Hotswap, can you take a look at him? See if you can determine anything about Scramble’s methods or powers?”  
  
I disguised my panic with a thoughtful look, as though I were merely considering. “How sure are we the victim was hit by Scramble? Could just have an intellectual disability.”  
  
Her aura flared _vindication-satisfaction-pride_. “He meets the profile. Male, age twenty-one to thirty-five, suspected of being a high-ranking non-combat gang member. ABB.” Oh god, I had a profile. Great. “The BBPD are bringing him in shortly.” She waited expectantly.  
  
I nodded, expression serious. “Sure, I’ll take a look.”  
  
_Shit_.  
  
I spent the rest of the status meeting in a daze, mind spinning in circles.  
  
After it ended, I split realities. In one I went to my lab. My refuge. Tried to distract myself with Tinkering—failed. Tried to think of contingency plans—couldn’t come up with anything practical. I decided to act like I normally would and see how badly I was fucked.

> In the other I tracked down Dauntless. Other Robin. She greeted me with her usual sunny smile, but I could tell in her aura she was distracted. I figured I could try to head things off before she reached her own conclusions.  
>    
>  “Hey, do you have a moment?”  
>    
>  “Of course Chris, what do you need?” That same guileless smile. Maybe she was thinking of something else?  
>    
>  I took a deep breath, not having to fake my nervousness. “I think I recognized that mugshot.”  
>    
>  “Oh?” she asked, _curiosity-interest-worry_. That was normal, right?  
>    
>  “The night of the party. I think he might have been the one who walked me home.”  
>    
>  Her eyes widened in surprise, her aura flashing to match. Maybe I’d been imagining things. “Oh, wow. Did you talk with him at all?”  
>    
>  I shook my head. “Like I said, he didn’t seem to speak much English. Maybe he’d already been hit by Scramble?”  
>    
>  Other Robin’s aura shifted to _concern-worry-doubt-confusion_. “You didn’t notice anything strange about his behavior? Actually, why did you let him walk you home? I thought you had… negative experiences, with the ABB. I didn’t think of it at the time, but—”

Abort, abort, everyone out of the timeline!  
  
I blew out a sigh in my lab, safe and sound. Maybe I had been worked up over nothing… but I’d have to be careful not to plant the idea in her head again. Lay low, play it cool, let it blow over. No need to freak out yet, right?  
  
Right.  
  
\---  
  
Half an hour later, Armsmaster waited in tense, anticipatory silence beside me in the lobby, her emotions a dark _frustration-vindication-expectation-doubt-worry-fear_. Probably worried about getting information from the first conscious lead on Scramble yet. The BBPD met us there, escorting a haggard Asian man with a dazed expression.  
  
_Hello again, Lao._  
  
Thankfully, even if he might have recognized me, he certainly didn’t while I was in my power armor. He was docile, cooperative, cuffed at wrists but not ankles. Not afraid of him running. Hell, he was a victim after all, not a suspect.  
  
A small conference room held the five of us—the two officers, Armsmaster, myself, and my mistake. My pretend-medical scanner spun and hummed and made its little lightshow, and Lao stood there unflinching as I held it towards his face.  
  
“Well?” Armsmaster asked, _eager-hope-interest-worry-doubt_.  
  
I swallowed. “It looks like someone took a melon-baller to his brain,” I admitted honestly. “The meat is all there, but the connections are… well, scrambled. He’s got the mental capability of a toddler at the moment. Walking, maybe recognizing a few words, object permanence, that’s about it. I’m amazed—” and frustrated “—he’s even alive right now.”  
  
Armsmaster frowned. “Any sign of what might have done the damage? Drugs in his system, entry wounds, diseases, anything that doesn’t belong?”  
  
I shook my head. “No trace of any culprit. A few scrapes and cuts, but they look to be recent. Might have tripped and fell.” Taking my hand away, I suppressed a full-body shiver looking at Lao’s blank expression. Meat puppet.  
  
I felt Armsmaster’s gaze on me like a physical weight. “Can you fix it?”  
  
“No,” I answered quickly. Perhaps too quickly. “I can’t affect brains.” She scowled at the news, staring me down with dark emotions. I resisted the urge to say anything else, complicate the deception. The moment stretched out interminably long, but I was afraid to even split off timelines in case it showed up in my expression. Still too new at it. Yet another thing I needed more practice at. Hopefully when this all blew over…  
  
She shook her head. “Very well. Get him out of here.”  
  
I might have cracked a rib holding in that sigh of relief, but I thought I sold it.  
  
\---  
  
I hadn’t sold it.  
  
I just wasn’t sure how bad I’d fucked everything up yet.  
  
Tension was thick in the lab. Colleen worked silently a few feet from me, as she normally did, but instead of our comfortable, familiar silence there was a looming absence of conversation. A cloud of dread that was echoed in the dark, tumultuous colors in her aura.  
  
I couldn’t focus on my work, retrying the same diagnostic over and over again.

> “Is everything alright?” I asked abruptly. Colleen didn’t turn to face me, instead slowly putting down her tools, leaning forward onto her workbench, resting on her forearms.  
>    
>  “Why do you ask?” she asked, entirely too calmly.  
>    
>  “You seem… upset.”  
>    
>  She didn’t answer, her aura only swirling faster, circling around her head like a snake eating its tail.  
>    
>  “Is there something I can do?” I tried again.  
>    
>  “I’m finding... I’m not entirely sure what you _can_ do, Chris.”  
>    
>  I swallowed. “What do you mean?”  
>    
>  “Other Robin came to me after the status meeting. Told me she recognized the victim. Eddy Lao. Saw him with you at your apartment the night of the party.” _Fuck. She had known it was him after all!_  
>    
>  Colleen turned her head to face me, eyes hard, lips a thin line. “Can you really not affect brains, Chris?”

I dropped the timeline.  
  
Tried not to hyperventilate. Colleen shifted, glancing at me, and I didn’t dare look at her. Kept staring at my whateveromatic splayed out before me like I could find answers in the microcircuits and kinetic capacitors. Eventually—after far too long—she turned back to her work.  
  
_Should I just run now?_  
  
Abandon everything I’d built over the last seven weeks, my colleagues, my friends, my _power armor_ …

> “I’m trying to make the city better,” I said out of the blue.  
>    
>  Once again the slow resting of tools, the exhausted lean forward, not meeting my plaintive gaze. “‘Like someone took a melon-baller to his brain’, you said.”  
>    
>  “He was my lead to Lung,” I insisted, not liking how weak my voice sounded. How much it felt like pleading. “I was rushed. Caught off guard. Otherwise I’d have his location by now and he’d be surrounded by heroes.”  
>    
>  “Heroes,” she repeated hollowly. “Heroes don’t use their powers on other heroes.”  
>    
>  “What?” I asked, dumbly.  
>    
>  “Will you use your power on me now, Chris? Now that you’ve been caught?” She turned to face me, eyes flashing with anger, a spanner clutched tightly in one hand. “Make it so I can’t even brush my teeth or answer to my own name? Will I even remember this conversation?”  
>    
>  _No, you won’t._

I dropped that timeline as well.  
  
I nearly dropped my tools when she abruptly stood, walked towards—walked _past_ me, brisk footsteps.

> I split off a timeline to follow her. Just the bathroom. False alarm.

I took the time in the other reality to rest my head in my hands. _Fuck_.  
  
If only I’d met with Cauldron sooner; I might have been able to Path my way out of this mess.  
  
Time passed agonizingly slowly.  
  
I made it pass by twice.

> “You know I’d never use my powers on you, right?” I said, trying to put as much honesty in my tone as I could.  
>    
>  The now-familiar gesture of a heavy conversation underway. “I have absolutely no way of confirming that,” she said, fists clenching.  
>    
>  “I wouldn’t do that. Not to heroes. Not to my friends.”  
>    
>  “How long have you been lying to us, Chris? Taking advantage of us, making _fools_ of us? Of _me_?”  
>    
>  “I…” My throat tightened, no excuses she’d believe coming to mind.  
>    
>  “Will you use your power on me now, Chris? Now that—”

I ended the timeline. Couldn’t bear to live through that again.

> I split it again just so I could howl in frustration. That me got immediately foamed. _Great_.

Maybe I should just leave. She obviously suspected, was just trying to decide what to do about it.  
  
Could I beat her to the punch? Discredit her and Other Robin’s accusation?

> I tried it, just in case. Ended up in M/S lockdown with the others.

No deal.

> “Please don’t hate me,” I begged.  
>    
>  That same slow, damning resignation. “Will I have a choice, Chris?”

Another universe destroyed.

> “I was going to tell you,” I lied. Tried to talk over her god-forsaken silence. “After I captured Lung. I wanted to do something nice for you, after how much you’ve helped me.”  
>    
>  “Mastering, crippling dozens of people,” she said, voice painfully even, fists clenching.  
>    
>  “Bad people. Nobody the world would miss,” I insisted. “Nazis. Human traffickers. Murderers. Lao had personally killed eight people.”  
>    
>  “ _You don’t get to make that call,_ ” she said, turning towards me, eyes full of angry disappointment. Daggers right in my stomach, both of my hearts pounding impotently.  
>    
>  “Then you take it!” I shouted, tears in the corners of my eyes. “You tell me who is an acceptable target. I trust you!” Somehow that only made her _more_ furious, her aura a dark stormcloud around her head. What did I need to say to make this right? “I am trying to do the right thing,” I confessed.  
>    
>  Her hand lashed out—a button pounded with a fist—and I was drowned in confoam before I could say anything else.

Another reality shattered.  
  
_This isn’t working._

> The next half dozen attempts ended the same way. She wasn’t listening. Nearly decked me when I tried to approach her. The more time went on the angrier she got, even though we were just sitting in increasingly uncomfortable silence in the one true timeline. It practically darkened the lights in the lab, made the warmth oppressive, the cozy walls feel claustrophobic, closing in on me like a steel trap.  
>    
>  When I finally gave up, trying to run only got that version of me foamed before I made it out the door.

I could only sit there, paralyzed. Every choice a wrong one, every path leading to disaster.  
  
Maybe I should just... let myself get foamed? Go on probation, have my crimes swept under the rug for PR purposes, maybe shipped to a different city. Except… would they Birdcage me? A Master hiding in plain sight amongst the Protectorate, with a dozen tangential murders under my belt? Wasn’t that what Ingenue was sentenced for? Oh god, _was I knockoff Ingenue?_  
  
I nearly yelped when Colleen abruptly stood, only maintaining my cool because I’d split my timeline in preparation for another conversation.  
  
That version of me got foamed.  
  
Bathroom again? It’d only been half an hour. The longest half hour of my life, but still.  
  
Wait—she’d been typing on her keyboard the last few minutes. Intermittent. I’d mostly glossed over it in my increasingly desperate struggles to get out of the room without everything collapsing around me. Was she opening the door for a squad of PRT agents, or our teammates?  
  
I glanced her way towards the entrance to the lab, not sensing other auras… but I did see her pause at the blast doors. Without looking my way, she said “I’ll be right back. You’ll be here when I return?”  
  
“Of course,” I lied—

> —screaming and getting foamed in another timeline to maintain my calm.

Her aura left a lingering cloud of doom after she left.  
  
I waited a good three minutes before I calmly walked out of the lab.  
  
Made my way to the bay.  
  
Dove into the water.  
  
Fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand everything goes to shit.


	46. Day 51.46 : Port in a Storm

**Port in a Storm**  
  
I had nowhere to go.  
  
Apartment was a write-off. Hotels would be watched. Cards, useless. Driver’s license, reported. Phone, tracked. I had my beardomatic and a voicebox, but that’s all I could keep on me without suffering water damage. I had only my wits and my powers—one was still reeling from the sudden turn in fortune, the other… well, the ability to summon nuclear weapons on demand wasn’t particularly applicable in figuring out where to go when my friends wanted to arrest me.  


> I walked to Calvert’s house. It was mid-day, but I figured I could… I didn’t know. Hide there? Have someone to talk to who wouldn’t judge me? Figure out where she stashed the good coffee?  
>   
> She wasn’t home. I waited for a minute, then walked to the back and snapped off the back door handle. Alarms went off. I scratched that timeline, disabled the alarm first, got hit with staggering roar of explosions and pain after the first step.

I blinked, waiting at the bus stop down the block. I thought she had been _joking_ about those claymores.  
  
I decided to leave a note, slipped under the door. The number to my burner phone, purchased hastily—and in disguise—with most of the cash I had on hand, and a simple “Help?” scrawled below it.  
  
Because Coil was _famous_ for her charity and kindness.  
  
\---  
  
The next bus took me downtown, then past it to the Docks. A phone booth and a yellowed Yellow Pages found me my next target, one of the few places I could name offhand in the city that wasn’t a restaurant or a high school.  
  
A red brick factory with a massive sliding metal door locked shut by a coil of chain, both rusted shut. It was a lot larger than I’d expected, stretching nearly half the block, two or three stories tall. A pale orange-pink sign with white lettering.

> I opened the small side door with a small application of Shadow Stalker’s power, made my way up the spiral staircase. Two people, a handful of smaller, simpler emotions. Only one of the people was by the stairs.  
>   
> He had his gun drawn on me before my head cleared the landing. I held my hands up, not feeling particularly threatened, but not wanting to be a douche about it either.  
>   
> Tattletale sighed and lowered the gun with a scowl, _irritation-frustration-fear-anger_. “The hell do you want?”  
>   
> “A place to lay low for a while?”  
>   
> “Fuck off.” Didn’t need to be an empath to pick up the vehemence in his voice there.  
>   
> “Dunno why you’re so mad at _me_. I didn’t take Coil up on her offer; left you alone, right?”  
>   
> He tried to set me on fire with the force of his glare alone. "I spent the last four days freaking out that you'd scrambled my brains. Because you thought it would be _funny_."  
>   
> I winced. It was kind of a dick move, in retrospect.  
>   
> “Yeah. It _was_ ,” he said, being all Tattletale at me. “And meanwhile you’re here because… your friends finally caught on to what you were doing? I told you you were being sloppy. Nobody listens to the Thinker. Even though you’re one, since I _know_ Coil never told you where we lived. Followed us? No, you would have brought us in. You’re not as subtle as you think you are. Honestly if you weren’t backed up by Coil you’d have been caught ages ago. You’re an _idiot_.”  
>   
> I fixed him with a flat look. “Could you not? I’m really not in the mood.”  
>   
> “What are you going to do, _mind-rape_ me?”  
>   
> I flinched at the term. Not how I’d ever imagined my power. Mind-taker, _maybe_.  
>   
> He pressed on, pouring on the fake sympathy. “Aww, poor little _mind-rapist_ feeling called out? Fragile little _brain-fucker_ and her delicate feelings? I trust one of _Heartbreaker’s kids_ more than you, you sick fuck.”  
>   
> A gun appeared in my hand. Hands. It was a big one. “I knew this was a mistake,” I said, as much to myself as to the annoying little shit deliberately trying to piss me off.  
>   
> “You’re goddamn right it was, overcompensating bitch.” His aura radiated something between anger and smug amusement. “You think Coil didn’t have tells when she used her power? You’re an open book compared to her. Go ahead and close this timeline, and fuck you. Fuck you sideways with a rake." His smile grew predatory. “You know she won’t help you either, right? You’re too hot to touch, now.” _Shit_. He had a point.  
>   
> "...I could just arrest you.” Maybe it would give me some leniency.  
>   
> "And go back to the Protectorate? I'd sing like a canary given half a chance. You'd be fucked. Kill me and my dead man's switch goes off. I can't stop it, either, so _mind-raping_ me won't help."  
>   
> I heard dogs approaching at the loud voices, the sound of footsteps.  
>   
> I shot Tattletale in the stomach—just to see the shocked look on his face—then closed the timeline.

Probably shouldn’t get into the habit of doing that.  
  
Still, I knew it was a long shot, but I didn’t know where else to go. I wasn’t about to show up to the _other_ place I knew in the city. Poor guy had enough troubles without me making them worse.  
  
I rested my head in my hands at the other bus stop down the street. Plan D it was, then.  
  
\---  
  
I waited at the bar, impatient and uncomfortable in my tight red dress.  
  
Of course he’d be late.  
  
Finally I recognized the backwards baseball cap from the photo on the dating app I’d downloaded onto my burner phone. I had swiped right on the douchiest dudebros I could find, hoping to find someone expendable.  
  
Aaron fit the bill, giving me a slow up-down that made my skin crawl, followed by a low wolf-whistle. “Damn, honey! I half expected you to be a hundred pounds heavier than your pic, but you are one—”  
  
I grabbed his hand, pulling him to the nearest booth. He stammered something, then found his throat constricting, his steps stumbling. I practically threw him into the seat, then sat demurely across from him, one hand still wrapped around his wrist.  
  
"Do you have your own place?"  
  
"Y-yes."  
  
"Great! Let's go.” I started to stand, then had a thought. Sat back down.  
  
“Wait. No. Buy me dinner first. I'm a _lady_."  
  
\---  
  
I stared at the number on my phone while Aaron cleaned his place up for me. I may have been on the run, and I wasn’t exactly the cleanest roommate, but I had _standards_. I was amazed he thought he could bring girls home to this pigsty and expect to get laid.

> Before I could change my mind, I pressed the dial button.  
>   
> It rang twice.  
>   
> Colleen picked up. “Hello?”  
>   
> “Hey,” I said, voice quiet.  
>   
> A long silence. I imagined she was tracing the call now, for all the good it would do her.  
>   
> Her voice was low, thick, hard to read without the auras I’d learned to rely on. “You left."  
>   
> "I don't want to fight you."  
>   
> A hardness entered her tone. "I'm not giving you a choice."  
>   
> I floundered for a moment, drowning, searching for something to hold on to.  
>   
> "I don't understand why you're so upset. I’d almost convinced you a few times."  
>   
> A faint creak. Clenching her teeth? Squeezing the phone? "...I'll explain it to you once I've captured you."  
>   
> "I'm this close to getting Lung for you,” I said, a shot in the dark.  
>   
> "Do you think I _care_?"  
>   
> “I’m sorry,” I said with a sigh.  
>   
> “Tell me that in person,” she countered. I could hear muffled noises in the background. She was probably already on her way. For a moment, I considered letting her bring me back home.  
>   
> “...Goodnight, Colleen.”

Aaron gave me a wide berth as I sobbed alone on his couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Hotarms shippers left, or have I sunk it thoroughly enough?


	47. Day 52.47 : Repairs

**Repairs**  
  
“Sorry, baby. No one answered. I don’t think she was home.”  
  
Aaron picked his way through the remains of his living room. Where it had been—briefly—clean, it was now a mess of a different sort. His television, his laptop, his microwave and oven and fridge, his blow-dryer, his iron and his smoke detector lay strewn around me as I floated above the floor, trying to make up for even a tiny fraction of what I had lost.  
  
He held out his arms, laden with grocery bags. I gestured him over to the side, where he could leave the ground beef, shrimp, corn with husks, and canned tuna—biomass and proteins, chitin, cellulose for biopolymers, and that sweet sweet mercury—for me to process later.  
  
It took me a moment to realize he’d spoken, and a moment longer to rewind. I frowned. It was a long shot again, but I’d hoped Coil would have come home eventually. She was normally very punctual; now she didn’t call, she didn’t write…  
  
“Baby...” Aaron said, his voice forlorn. I looked up at him, seeing his muted _sadness-disappointment-frustration_ , then followed his gaze to the hollowed out husk of his favorite gaming console, laid out next to the gutted corpse of his flat-screen.  
  
Looked back up at him, felt an unexpected twinge of regret. “Sorry. I needed the parts.”  
  
“I was hoping to game later, but…” He smiled, patient and understanding. “I hope you got what you needed, at least.”  
  
“It’s a start,” I said honestly. There were a lot of useful parts in commercial technology, and between Kaiserin making the most of what rare metals I could find and Caduceus letting me create tailor-made organisms to break down the good from the mediocre—you could do truly amazing things with yeast—I was making an unexpected amount of progress on my next project. _Projects_ , really, since I couldn’t decide on just one. The problem with having ADD, a modular specialty and an eight-hour energy-drink-fueled Tinkering binge was that I had 75 to 90 percent of half a dozen pieces of tech and had to narrow it down to whatever I needed most.  
  
I had… some semblance of a plan.  
  
Aaron sat down on the sofa on the other side of the room, watching me work with _awe-pride-affection_ in his aura, a bit of a goofy look on his face. The strange thing was, I hadn’t needed to do much—I wasn’t going to repeat my mistakes with Lao. I had scrambled his memory a bit, wrote myself into his recent past, declared myself his platonic rogue cape girlfriend from Canada that he never told his friends about, and the rest was mental inertia and the inherent avoidance of cognitive dissonance.  
  
No—the _really_ strange thing was how different he was in private from how he’d first appeared. A startlingly short—but _brutally_ honest—conversation had revealed just how much of that bravado and misogyny was a defense mechanism, a learned behavior, emulating his peers. I’d barely needed much of a nudge to reveal the patient, understanding man who wanted to be better buried beneath the veneer of casual sexism and societal expectations.  
  
It made me feel uncomfortably unsteady. I wasn’t going to start pardoning Nazis—once you supported a group that advocated genocide, you were beyond excuse—nor was I going to let the human traffickers and sex slavers get a free pass because they _might_ have been really nice guys once you got past the horrible human rights violations.  
  
But it did make me wonder if I’d caught any innocents in the crossfire.  
  
Or if I might have, had I not been caught out.  
  
I’d worry about that once I wasn’t on the run from the law and my… _former_ friends. Temporarily former. I’d fix this somehow. I’d make it right.  
  
_“This is who I am now,”_ I whispered under my breath. _“I am in control of myself and my body.”_  
  
It didn’t feel as hollow as it used to. But that didn’t mean I had everything figured out.  
  
I suppressed a surge of regret at the other words that came to mind.  
  
_Small, but measurable, incremental growth._  
  
I looked down at my scattered projects. I had decisions to make.  
  
This was normally where I’d ask my friends for help, but…  
  
Actually.  
  
\---

> “Hey, Christie.”  
>   
> “...Chris? Is that you?”  
>   
> I found myself smiling, fond. “Yeah, it’s me. What have they been saying about me?”  
>   
> I heard muffled sounds, footsteps, a door closing. In a hushed tone, she answered “They aren’t saying much. Armsmaster is… I’ve never seen her so angry.” I took a sharp breath, let it out. “We have strict orders to report you on sight, then evacuate without engaging. What happened?”  
>   
> “I can’t talk about it,” I said, not quite a lie, “But I need your advice.”  
>   
> “Anything you need,” she said without hesitation, and I felt a surge of pride.  
>   
> I quizzed her on options. Told her what I was planning. But before I ended the call…  
>   
> “Chris, what _happened_?”  
>   
> I sighed, almost shut down the timeline then and there. But… maybe it could be a test. To see how fucked I was. “I’ve been hunting down Lung. Like I did Road Hog.”  
>   
> “But why would that make everyone—”  
>   
> “I didn’t do it _well_. They want to bring me in because I was… sloppy.”  
>   
> “Chris, I don’t think you’d do anything unforgivable. Come back, I’ll talk to Armsmaster, to Piggot, we can work this out.”

The timeline shut down on its own before I could reply. I stared at the phone in my hand, un-dialed. I didn’t want to have that conversation, but… there were other things I needed to do anyway.  
  
\---

> “Director.”  
>   
> “Hotswap. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” His voice was calm, unruffled. I had no doubt I was being recorded and traced, just like before.  
>   
> “How deep in shit am I right now?”  
>   
> He _hmm’d_ a bit, thoughtful. “That depends on how long it takes to bring you in, doesn’t it?”  
>   
> “I wanted— _still_ want—to make the city better. To destroy the gangs. Make the streets safe. Safer.”  
>   
> “And if you’d cooperated with the Protectorate and the PRT, I’m sure we could have made that happen. Instead, you made Heartbreaker look unambitious and the Protectorate incompetent. Complicit, even.”  
>   
> This time there I couldn’t hear movement, muffled sounds of pursuit. He was probably stalling while Armsmaster hunted me down, this time.  
>   
> He broke the silence before I did. “You had made big strides, Hotswap. Great progress. Showed promise. I’m very disappointed.”  
>   
> I winced. “Isn’t this the part where you tell me there’s still a chance I can make it right by turning myself in?”  
>   
> “Yes. Will you?”  
>   
> “...No.”  
>   
> “Ah. Well. I tried.” I was growing increasingly anxious at his completely unflappable demeanor. Like there was something he knew that I didn’t. I still had my safe timeline, and he didn’t know about Coil’s power… right?  
>   
> I tried one last shot before I collapsed that universe. “Would me bringing in Lung make any difference?”  
>   
> He paused, actually seeming to consider my offer. “It would certainly be a point in your favor, yes. Assuming the city still stood afterward.”  
>   
> That was a good sign. We sat in silence for a moment, no doubt letting him track me down further. Another thought struck me before I killed the timeline.  
>   
> “I really was just going to heal your kidneys, you know.”  
>   
> “Of course you were.”

I hated how insincere he sounded. I broke down that reality before I found out why he was so damn confident.  
  
\---

> “I’m sorry.”  
>   
> There was silence on the other end of the line for a few long seconds. “Fuck you.”  
>   
> “I deserve that. In fact, I probably deserve to get brutally murdered. Say, by Lung.”  
>   
> I crossed my fingers. I suspected Coil had been holding out on me til she was in a better position to take advantage of the chaos, but if anyone knew where the slippery lizard was hiding, it was everyone’s favorite snitch.  
>   
> “This conversation isn’t happening, is it.”  
>   
> “Nope.”  
>   
> “I am going to give you a series of questions. You are going to send me answers to those questions in the real timeline. I will reply with Lung’s last known location. Do you understand?”  
>   
> I hesitated. He waited. After a few seconds he started humming the Jeopardy theme. The little shit.  
>   
> “You’re not going to like my answers,” I admitted. “Might not even believe them.”  
>   
> “There’s something _seriously_ wrong with you, Chris. And not just your fucked up worldview, or your wild rationalizations of horrible violations of physical and mental autonomy.” Well, that was slightly better terms than he’d used last time, at least. Small comforts. “You don’t make sense. You don’t _fit_.”  
>   
> “Don’t I know it,” I said, aiming for self-deprecating humor and missing.  
>   
> There was no sound on the line for ten seconds, twenty, thirty. Just the faintly audible sound of tapping.  
>   
> My phone _pinged_ in my ear, jarring even as I was expecting it.  
>   
> He spoke again. “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll do the same. These are my terms.”  
>   
> I scrolled through his text, wincing, but jotting down the questions in the other reality. I was about to hang up, end the timeline, when he threw out, “And don’t try to tell me in a fake timeline, either. I’ll call you to check.”

_Fuck_.

> I tried anyway. That universe got sent hundreds of truly disgusting images from the darkest depths of the internet.

I showered in both timelines just to try to cleanse myself of the residual sense of filthiness.  
  
Eventually—against my better judgement—I got an address.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what Tats would do with the knowledge that someone genuinely and truly believed they were a self-insert into a fictional universe... so I'm not gonna show it.


	48. Day 52.48 : Gang Aft Agley

**Gang Aft Agley**  
  
The plan was foolproof.  
  
Creeping grey vines sealed the edges of windows, gaps beneath doors. Barely noticeable. Wouldn’t even block the doors from opening—just keep them from leaking too much when closed. From the storm sewer thirty feet away, I could tell they weren’t noticed by the guards’ auras. The building, a squat brownstone with streets and alleys to three sides and an abandoned convenience store to the fourth, was crawling with goons. I’d checked the news—still no Bakuda—so these had been recruited the normal way, I imagined. Perhaps emboldened by the arrest of Kaiserin, the ABB had swollen in number even as the Empire hemorrhaged muscle.  
  
They were on alert, though. Scramble was a mysterious, looming threat that targeted all gangs, as far as anyone knew, and nobody had gotten a good enough look at them—perhaps because of their power—to know who to be on the lookout for. So they just kept an eye on everyone. Multiple sets of guards, buddy systems, passwords, regular check-ins, the works. A traditional infiltration would have been a challenge.  
  
But since when was I ever traditional?  
  
Up on the roof, a tiny drone camera monitored my meat-bellows, ensured they had positioned themselves over the air conditioning ducts. Cobbled together from stray cats—borrowing from Panacea’s playbook, and a bit of Dead Space—they were little more than crawling lungs that pumped out aerosolized compounds into the now-mostly-airtight building below.  
  
I was proud of that part of the plan. A colorless, odorless gas; a sedative, inactive, but triggered by adrenaline and stress hormones. Alert guards would feel a bit drowsy, but a sharp blow, or surprise attack, or news of an unexpected pregnancy, and anyone exposed would be out like a light. The more excited, frightened or angry they got? The faster they passed out. Tailor-made to take out Lung. I just wished it didn’t take so long to soak in, but tradeoffs were the name of the game, and time was passing far too rapidly.  
  
I felt my hearts pounding in my chest and stomach, pupils dilating to take in the dim light, ears twitching to take in sound from all angles, the barest whisper of conversation, the low hiss of distant traffic like rain on water. This was right. This was part of the plan. What was it all for, if not to be a hero? To use my strengths to make the world a better place?  
  
Colleen would forgive me eventually.  
  
She had to.  
  
Something went _ping_ in my earpiece. Probably just another passing car from the motion-sensing perimeter drones. It was amazing what you could cobble together with repurposed household technology and a handful of goldfish. Just in case, I checked the feed, and…  
  
_Oh for fuck’s sake._  
  
A pickup truck approached the building at a good clip. I squinted at it—the camera wasn’t the highest quality, considering the haste with which I built it—but it didn’t take much to see the armed, skinhead goons in the bed of the truck, nor the heavily-muscled, wolf-masked woman and wiry, bald, cage-headed man in the cabin.  
  
At first I cursed my bad luck. I wasn’t about to let Hookwolf get her grubby little hands on a defenseless Lung!  
  
Then a creeping realization sunk in; luck probably had nothing to do with it.  
  
I made a note to shoot Tattletale again at the next available opportunity.  
  
Either way, my time was running out. No time for rehearsals— _fuck it, we’ll do it live!_  
  
I slammed my fist onto the big red button with feral anticipation.  
  
An ear-piercing screech blasted out from my reconfigured voicebox, loud enough to rattle nearby windows and give a nice, heart-pounding surprise to everyone in a quarter mile radius. My ears sealed themselves against the sound, popping back open with a bizarre sensation. Through my external cameras and my emotion-sense, I saw half the ABB thugs in and around the building drop into a temporary coma on the spot. The rest would probably follow suit shortly once the Empire arrived.  
  
But I had a dramatic entrance to make first.  
  
I hurled myself up into the air and through the top floor window, decked head to toe in everarmor shifted into a black, monstrously heavy Explosive Ordnance Disposal suit, the twins hulking me out to a solid seven foot height. I was imposing, I was crashing through the window, and I had a small deck canon under one arm. Surely anyone who saw me would be given enough pause to let the sedative take effect.  
  
To my left, Lung, passed out on a futon.  
  
To my right, Oni Lee, standing expressionless, having turned to face me as soon as I breached the building.  
  
What.  
  
And then there were half a dozen of her around me, and—  
  
_Boom._  
  
My world was light and sound and fury. When I could see, hear again—god bless Aegis—I realized a few things.  
  
One: in my confidence the gas would take out Lung, I hadn’t thought to make sure it wasn’t flammable.  
  
Two: I was pretty sure Plan Zero Collateral Damage just flew out the shattered window.  
  
Three: Oni Lee might be dead—no, she still had an aura, barely visible from where she’d ragdolled into the corner. I’d pick her up later.  
  
And, most importantly, Four: Lung was now awake. And _pissed_.  
  
So I shot her twice in the stomach, which only made her more angry. And she was healing way too fast _oh shit fire_ —  
  
I leapt out the window I came in from, all the remaining glass thoroughly and enthusiastically removed..  
  
Lung followed a second later, tearing through the wall, giant hands outstretched, reaching—  
  
I felt her hand close around my ankle and instinctively swerved, trying to slam her into the building across the street—  
  
Something went _crunch_ below my knee and I felt as much as heard a bellowing roar—  
  
In a fit of panicked inspiration I barreled headlong towards the Empire truck, having stopped halfway turned just in front of the now wrecked building—  
  
Hookwolf was all blades and _bloodlust-anticipation-surprise_ when I slammed Lung into her like a wrecking ball made of meat, fire and hate.  
  
Damn lizard bitch still had a death-grip on what remained of my calf—I had to use Shadow Stalker’s power, half forgotten, to slip away—and then, aside from a few stray gunshots, I was up and over the nearest rooftop.  
  
I could have run, then, I supposed. Let the two duke it out, take out the winner.  
  
But I wanted them _alive_.  
  
Unfortunately, Lung’s rampaging, twelve-foot-tall form (on fire!) and Hookwolf’s bus-sized blade-puppy form made getting close to either a losing proposition.  
  
On the other hand, I could see the little ball of _fury-jubilation-rage_ that was Hookwolf’s core, swimming somewhere in the beast’s chest…  
  
One, two, three High Explosive Anti-Tank rounds screamed off, as fast as I could refresh the everweapon. Just the shockwave and shrapnel took out poor Cricket, a hapless bystander in this clash between titans. Lung, however, took that gift horse and punched it in the mouth, tracking the smoke trails to my perch and hurling herself in my direction with an earth-shaking roar, little stubs of wings sticking out of her back, her neck long and arched, her mouth an X of teeth and rage.  
  
I saw fire. I saw _death_.  
  
I wrapped myself in asbestos but for one poor hand— _sorry, Leftie_ —and lunged right back towards her, knowing in my heart of hearts that this _was going to suuuuck_.  
  
We collided in mid-air with a resounding _crash_ —  
  
I wrapped my arms around her in a hug and _twisted_.  
  
\---  
  
I didn’t have time to scramble the memories of the surviving goons.  
  
I barely had time to grab Oni Lee before the howling sirens and flashing lights of the BBPD and PRT converged on the scene like buzzards to a carcass.  
  
I also only had one hand.  
  
And so that was why I—perched on Lung’s back like she was a mecha made of meat—directed her body down empty alleyways and into the sewers, Hookwolf and Oni Lee tucked under each of her arms, stomping into the dark in eerie silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that could have gone better.
> 
> But hey! Mission accomplished, right?


	49. Day 53.49 : Echoes

**Echoes**

> “You killed twenty-six people last night.”  
>    
>  Colleen’s voice was cold, flat. Absent of those undertones I’d learned to interpret like a second language.  
>    
>  “Oni Lee did.” It was even technically correct, the best kind of correct. If it weren’t for her—and fucking _Tattletale_ —I’d have completed the mission flawlessly.  
>    
>  “Traces of chemical accelerants and eyewitness accounts tell a different story.” Her voice was steady, but this time I could hear some muffled traffic noises. Too soon for her to be tracking the call—I must have caught her while she was already on the road. Patrolling, maybe. It was touching she still made time to speak with me, even after our... falling out.  
>    
>  “I’ve got two gang leaders in my pocket right now,” I didn’t whine, hoping this time she’d listen—  
>    
>  “And yet the gangs remain.”  
>    
>  “I wasn’t about to leave a power vacuum!” I half-shouted, already knowing how this conversation would go. Slight variations on a theme, but the melody remained the same. “Progress is being made. Small, but measurable—”  
>    
>  “Do _not_ finish that sentence,” she snarled, deliberate tone abruptly replaced with bright fury. No go on that tack, then.

I made a note in my safe timeline. Then, with an effort of will, I ended the fourteenth consecutive reality and hung my head in my hands, letting loose a low sigh.  
  
Aaron noticed, gave me a gentle pat on the shoulder, a sad, supportive smile. I wondered what he thought I was doing. Hell, I wondered what he thought about the mushrooms, or the temporary hand I’d grown out of them. He kind of took it all in stride—after a few small changes, of course.  
  
Hookwolf, Oni Lee and Lung were gone, back from whence they came—although I did grab a charge each in their powers. Their bodies, however, remained linked to mine. I could feel them, decode more and more easily how their bodies made noise, moved around in space, how their eyes reported what they saw back to their brains. The Tinkertech devices strapped to my lower back were bulky, somewhat crude, only lightly padded by fresh-grown leather. The Einstein-Rosen bridges were miniscule—half a millimeter across—but enough to connect us across the city. Somehow I didn’t think Christie would approve of my applications of her tech.  
  
It was easier on the other side. I could nestle the receivers inside them, sealed in bone and sheathed with cartilage. I quickly grew used to their presence, soon becoming no more distracting than the bacteria that constantly died on my skin. A bit of effort to translate their perceptions into something useful, but much easier to give commands.  
  
Commands like, “make a convincing story of how you escaped my clutches last night” and “completely dismantle your forced sex-work and human trafficking operations immediately and with extreme prejudice” and “bring me your underlings so I might make them better as well”, each carried out enthusiastically and without question. I had to leave soon—precluding a fifteenth attempt to call Colleen—to grab Stormtiger and start working my way through Fenrir’s Chosen’s unpowered members.  
  
Yeah, there were rumors that Scramble had gotten to them, but it didn’t fit their—my—modus operandi. And who was going to tell Lung ‘I think you’ve been Mastered’? Or Hookwolf? And literally nobody noticed any changes in Oni Lee’s behavior, the creepy fuck. _My_ creepy fuck now, I supposed.  
  
And it was a trip, manipulating a parahuman. Regular people made for strange meat puppets, but powers? Oh boy, did that open whole new vistas. Literally, in some sense—getting an up-close-and-personal look at a brain of a parahuman I didn’t think the world would miss if I messed up, even if I wasn’t doing my work in disposable universes? Hell, I could almost feel those continent-sized masses through the daisy-chained portals, begging to be tweaked and poked and prodded.  
  
Although that was an _incredibly_ stupid thing to attempt. Not the least of which because I had no way of predicting what might happen—Coil’s power kind of shut down when faced with Trigger events or things like them. Something to keep in my back pocket if Gold Morning went to shit, I supposed.  
  
I checked my watch, sighed again. Maybe time for one more call.

> In one universe I patted Aaron on the head in farewell, headed downstairs to catch a cab.

In another I called Colleen again.  
  
Strangely, she didn’t pick up this time.

> More strangely, the apartment complex seemed oddly quiet. A quick scan around didn’t reveal any emotional auras. Maybe I’d just caught them at an odd time? It was mid-morning on a weekday.  
>    
>  It wasn’t until I’d hit the lobby and was suddenly inundated with pings on my power radar that I realized something was wrong.

“Fuck!” I shouted in my now-safe timeline. Aaron jumped. I shoved tech, half-finished projects, useful tools, a couple meatballs into my bug-out bag—

> —as my other self put my hands up, holding stock-still in the empty lobby.  
>    
>  _“This is the Protectorate. We have you surrounded. Do not move.”_ The loudspeaker was unmistakably Armsmaster’s voice, coming from just outside the glass doors. Hearing it made my hearts stutter, my stomach twist. This wasn’t at all how I planned on seeing her next.  
>    
>  I could just see her beautiful bike nestled between two PRT vans. Catch a peek of her shining, heroic blue and silver armor. I wondered what halberd she’d packed today? Would there be surprises?

I resisted the urge to look outside the apartment balcony. How had they tracked me down?  
  
Aaron was feeding all my organic scraps and anything I wasn’t grabbing into the infernonator, my combination autoclave/forge/kiln. His aura was _frantic-focused-determined-concerned_ , but we’d discussed this. Laid out plans. Dispose of evidence, leave no clues. Like camping—take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints. Except without even that.

> I placed my hands behind my head and waited. Brave, foolish PRT agents entered first, foam sprayers at the ready, featureless masks and chainmail-accented uniforms granting them a certain stormtrooper anonymity.

I placed my hand on Aaron’s head. He closed his eyes with a sad smile, leaning into my touch. “This is goodbye, then?” he asked. I felt an unexpected twinge of sadness. I hoped he’d get out of this alright.

I took a deep breath and—with a feather-light touch—scrambled Aaron’s memory of the last forty-eight hours. Undid as much of my tweaks as I could. He’d wake up as through from a long weekend’s bender, with no changes except a house freed from electronics and smelling of ozone and charred toast.

> I took a deep breath. “How did you find me?” I called out, making the broad sprayer barrels twitch a bit.  
>   
> I hadn’t expected an answer, and so was surprised when one of the troopers actually replied, voice quiet, “New Ward. Precog.”  
>   
> Some of the other troopers turned to face the speaker, although a noticeable number didn’t. Even as my mind raced at the answer— _goddamnit Dean! I saved you!_ —I recognized that voice. “...Dottie?”  
>   
> “I’m sorry about this,” she muttered, almost too low to hear.  
>   
> “You’re just doing your job,” I reassured her, grateful she gave me even a little bit of information in this doomed timeline.  
>   
> And then her barrel swiveled abruptly—

I took a sprinter’s stance, facing the balcony—

> —spraying foam all over her teammates.

—tripped and nearly fell over in my surprise.

> _“Get out of here!”_ Trooper Gonzales shouted, whether to me or her teammates I wasn’t sure, but I took the opportunity and—

—gathered my wits and bolted through the apartment window, taking to the skies.

> —gathered my wits and bolted through the lobby window, taking to the skies.

Both timelines saw PRT vans down below. Both were shot at—et tu, Minuteman?—and both had to deal with hammer-blows to the chest and legs as stray shots connected, wincing in unison.

> In the one where I didn’t take the time to grab my gear, I wanted to stop. Float down to an angrily shouting Armsmaster—to Colleen—and try to speak to her face to face. To apologize in person. To try to explain myself.

But I couldn’t be sure either one would escape.  
  
And so, with much regret, I ran.  
  
A coward in parallel universes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris going Khepri-lite on us while the Protectorate pulls out all the stops.


	50. Day 54.50 : Choices

**Choices**  
  
I knew better than to expect a La-Z-Boy. That was definitely fanon, however hilarious.  
  
I knew enough to expect luxury; art, hanging tapestries, low pillows, decorative vases, a hookah as tall as a man in the corner, one loveseat that might as well have been a throne placed in the center of the far wall. Lung, splayed casually across it in the pose naturally assumed by royalty.  
  
I probably _should_ have expected the beautiful young men draped around the room.  
  
Even more surprising was the fact that they all seemed pretty okay with it. I didn’t know what kind of recruitment service Lung employed, but her eye-candy bore only the faintest traces of fear in their auras—and only when Lung’s voice grew loud, or cold—otherwise glowing with casual indifference and the occasional flare of arousal.  
  
Some smoked, their auras growing smooth and slightly blurry, almost melding in with the clouds of smoke that slowly drifted through the air. Others lounged decadently, sprawled about on pillows, several of them leaning against each other like a giant sleepover one imperious command away from a pillow fight. One rested drowsily against Lung’s leg, like a doting pet. And one stood behind her, massaging her shoulders, digging his thumbs deep into muscles, only occasionally eliciting a grunt.  
  
There was a whole lot of skin showing. Probably why the room was so warm. Or did it just feel that way?  
  
Lung apparently caught my eye wandering, because she smiled thinly and said, “Pick one.”  
  
Gears ground in my mind for a moment. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“Love or fear,” she said, her voice low, reminding me that we were in the middle of a conversation. Couldn’t lose focus like that—balancing her neurochemistry enough to keep her talkative without letting her get angry was a delicate procedure, with fiery repercussions if I failed. “To seek both is foolish. Each has its benefits, its drawbacks. One is fit for leading, the other dominating. Some people are given a choice. Others are thrust into their role. You and I?” Her smile widened, showing slightly uneven teeth. “We are true monsters. There is no life for us but in choosing fear.”  
  
I frowned. It had some appeal. Better to be feared than to be afraid. Lung was demonstrably unafraid of almost anything, anyone. Leviathan she dismissed as a force of nature; the man in the black suit, the Yàngbǎn, targets of future revenge. If I was not careful, I would join that list. She despised being manipulated, and I worried her regeneration would undo my wetwork. Constant vigilance; ‘he who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount'.  
  
“Say I chose fear. I suppose this is where you tell me there are two kinds?”  
  
She narrowed her eyes at me, no doubt wondering if I was using my power to predict her next words. A flare of irritation, neatly suppressed even before I could squash it with my power. She had a surprising amount of self-control for an unflinching tyrant. “Just so.”  
  
I carefully kept any satisfaction off my face, even though it was covered by a thin, lifelike fungus mask. I’d developed new disguise techniques while playing around with making my replacement hand look more realistic. Provoking her would be counterproductive, if tempting. “Mine is the more common kind. A _questioning_ fear.”  
  
“Yes.” She shifted, giving her masseuse pause before he adjusted. “It breaks. It ends when you have answers, when others give you their support.”  
  
“You want me to breed a fear like you do. A fear of knowing.”  
  
Lung nodded slowly, leaning forward, sprawling her arms over the edges of the loveseat. I thought she might have been moving to stand—hurriedly scanned her mind for thoughts of violence to remove—but it was only giving her servant better access to knead her tattooed back. Her black halter top was the only token concession to modesty, baring most of her stomach. As was tradition, she wore nothing else but painted dragons and jeans. Hey, at least I didn’t have to worry about her power messing with my tattoos when I eventually went full Trogdor.  
  
“Show them what you are capable of. Tell them you will take what you want—” _this_ flash of rage I did suppress, but not fast enough for the masseuse to miss the tips of scales poking through her flesh. He startled, waited for her to grunt to continue before he returned to his work. “—and let them live in fear of what you have done, what you could do again.”  
  
I pursed my lips together, thoughtful. It was… rather counterproductive to my long-term goals, but it did serve its purposes in the short-term. Much like managing Lung, I’d have to tread that line carefully, to make sure I didn’t reach the point of no return where my sins outweighed my good deeds.  
  
I bowed low, acknowledging her advice. She nodded slightly, and I gave enough nudges to her neurochemistry to reinforce the illusion that I was merely a trusted confidant and ally. She had grown too used to power to bow and scrape for any length of time, so there, too, I kept a careful balance of carrot and stick to maintain my control.  
  
It had taken a lot of sacrifice to make it to this point. I wasn’t about to let it go to waste.  
  
\---  
  
I sized up my opponent, resisting the urge to size up myself. I was just another recruit, here, unremarkable. Definitely not a cape, pay me no mind.  
  
He was gigantic. Not superhumanly so, but aside from being six foot two, he was also built like a refrigerator. And unlike me, he hadn’t been sparring for the last few hours. Even with Aegis, that was a _very long time_ in fighting terms.  
  
“You’re tired,” Hookwolf said, pacing around us in jeans and a cut-up muscle shirt that revealed her strong arms, Empire tattoos. “You’ve been training and sparring all day; Frank hasn’t. _Tough_. If you’re going to represent the Chosen as one of our elite, you’re going to be expected to go up against capes. Things will be just as one-sided or worse.”  
  
I spared her a glance to give her some stink-eye. She was grinning, taking entirely too much satisfaction in this charade—testing me as much as I was testing her. I was getting a feel on my control over her; she was putting me through my paces, trying to see if I’d quit.  
  
I couldn’t quite completely layer myself in metal beneath the skin, yet. Only in parts—ribs, skull—as added protection. It was harder than I anticipated to keep my powers hidden. More than once I had to take a breath and keep dagger-like scales from breaking through my clothes, or fire from spilling out the corners of my mouth as I panted, letting Aegis’s power pull oxygen out of god-knows-where to keep me from keeling over.  
  
I still had enough juice in me to dodge, get in close, and nail Frank in the nuts. It took two hits—surprising me—before he folded like a paper bag, giving me respite for the first time in hours. Nobody wanted to spar me after that, many of them reflexively crossing their legs and wincing. I got a few ragged cheers from the other women among their number.  
  
Hookwolf grinned, gave everyone training a fifteen minute water break, and joined me outside the warehouse-turned-training grounds for a smoke. Well, I smoked. She gave me a faintly disapproving look, which I answered with a flat stare.  
  
“Those things’ll kill ya,” she said, grin turning a little wry.  
  
“No, they really won’t,” I countered. Although I did notice after a while around the Wards that I got far less out of nicotine than I had when I first arrived. A shame, that.  
  
“It sets a bad example for the recruits,” she insisted, half-hearted complaints turning to something more akin to pride. “If we want to represent the true Aryan warrior, we have to have _higher_ standards. We have to be the best.”  
  
“You don’t actually believe in that shit, though,” I retorted, figuratively eyeballing her headstate to see if her chemistry backed up her words. “You’re in it for the fight.”  
  
“I’m no hatemonger,” she said, and she believed it. “It’s about the greater picture. Raising humanity to a higher level.”  
  
I grunted: ‘not buying it’.  
  
Surprisingly, she grunted back: ‘don’t care’.  
  
It felt dirty, hearing her speak _our_ language. Something precious taken out of context, co-opted, appropriated. How very white supremacist of her. I narrowed my eyes, felt the heat building up inside me—tamped it back down.  
  
She was mine. She couldn’t hurt me. Same with the others. Only a matter of time before I had them all.  
  
Hookwolf shook her head, picking up something in my reaction. More observant than people gave her credit for. “We did what you asked. Made peace. Shut down certain operations.” Her face grew briefly wistful. “I’m gonna miss Conspiracy Bar.” My complete lack of sympathy and flat look put her back on track. “But the point is, you can’t take the warrior out of the man just by forcing peace. They’re going to want to fight, to fuck, to make a difference.”  
  
I could fix that. It would take a while, but the world could only be made a better place by having fewer violent skinheads in it. I didn’t tell her that, though. “What do you suggest?”  
  
She grinned savagely at me. “Give them an enemy. Point them at a foe, let them loose.” She jabbed a finger into my chest. There was a dull _clank_. “Let yourself loose, too. Lead by example. Nobody will have faith in an armchair general.”  
  
I supposed there was some merit in that. Too much acting by proxy left vulnerabilities; lack of oversight was what probably led to the mental breaks in my first test subjects. If I wanted to enact lasting change, I had to be an active participant, provide ongoing guidance.  
  
Before I could put it into actual words, I grunted again: ‘I guess’.  
  
She had enough awareness not to grunt back, instead slapping me on the shoulder with enough force to knock over someone who didn’t have superpowers. “That’s the spirit. Now let’s get back to work.”  
  
\---  
  
I sat in a bare room in an ABB safehouse. Eight foot square, with a door and a window, no furnishing except for a futon on the floor and a small chest of drawers with a rack to put knives, belts and other weapons. Everything but her tools of the trade was covered with a fine layer of dust and ash. I was clearly the first person to enter this room besides its other occupant in weeks, if not months.  
  
Oni Lee kneeled in the center of the room, armor and mask off to the side, eating a bowl of rice with methodical, robotic efficiency.  
  
Plain rice. And an egg. No spices, no other ingredients, no flavor to speak of.  
  
She did not acknowledge my presence unless I gave her orders. She did not speak unless asked a direct question. She was a meat puppet long before I got my hands on her, and I struggled to find any sort of meaning or purpose in it. In her.  
  
Her mind was, I supposed, exceptionally free from distractions. Meditative, perhaps. In the right light, her unrelenting focus could be seen as zen-like.  
  
I imagined what it would be like to be her. To have a life stripped of anything but orders and the completion of those orders. It would be… meaningful, perhaps? Unburdened by self-reflection or worry or doubt, she had goals—provided for her—and strove to achieve them without thought of why or if it was a good thing to do.  
  
I looked at the rice. Told her to let me try it. She offered the bowl without question or hesitation.  
  
Her mind was a still pond, free of any weeds or fish, no wind stirring up ripples on the surface.  
  
With my fingers I dug out a bit of egg, a mouthful of rice. Put it in my mouth.  
  
It wasn’t _bad_ , necessarily. Just free of anything beyond base sustenance. The polar opposite of hedonism.  
  
I shook my head, and she took the bowl back, finished it quietly. Only the clink of chopsticks on ceramic broke the silence. No, this wasn’t where I’d draw inspiration from. This was not a life worth living.  
  
A lesson of what to avoid, perhaps. To not get so focused on my objectives that I lost myself.  
  
And to not rely on Oni Lee’s power, if at all possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris alienated their friends. Who can they turn to now for guidance?
> 
> Their slaves? Great idea!


	51. Day 55.51 : Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This one gets a bit more graphic about violence.

**Running**  
  
Gangs took a lot of work to maintain, even while dismantling them from the inside. Delegation helped, but Lung was rather hands-off aside from enforcing fear every once in a while, and Hookwolf… well. She ran trainings, rallied the troops, and was everybody’s terrifyingly dangerous drinking buddy, but she wasn’t much for management.  
  
Still, it wasn’t hard to see how they stayed in power for so long. Lung proved surprisingly resourceful—when properly motivated—and Hookwolf knew damn near a quarter of the city judging by the number of spare helping hands she could call upon to move equipment and drive a truck with only minutes warning. Skinheads, yes; horrible monsters, likely; but needs must when the devil drives.  
  
It didn’t help that the Protectorate was making constant raids on my safehouses. I lost those same minions by the dozens, arrested and carted off into M/S screening—as though I wasted time on the rank and file, aside from targets of convenience—with every attack. Worse, they were always alarmingly close to my constantly-moving workshop, forcing me to pick up and run at a moment’s notice, to abuse tightly-controlled timelines in an attempt to spoof Dean’s precog, to call in every resource I could get my hands on. Whether they knew it or not.

> “Hey Christie, it’s me.”  
>    
>  “Chris? What—you can’t call me.”  
>    
>  I frowned. This was new. “What happened?”  
>    
>  “They told me what you did.”  
>    
>  Oh goddamnit. “I swear it’s not as bad as it sounds,” I began.  
>    
>  “Are you joking? You’re Mastering people! You Mastered—”  
>    
>  “Gang members, sex slavers, Nazis, and three of the most dangerous villainous capes in Brockton Bay,” I insisted, but my heart wasn’t in it. Christie’s voice was high-pitched, disbelieving, outraged, _horrified_. It hurt to hear her like that, more than I cared to admit.  
>    
>  “I can’t believe all that time you were—and I—go to hell, _Scramble_.”  
>    
>  They hung up before I could close the timeline.

I sat there in silence for several minutes, mourning. Gang members—minions—bustled just outside the door, carrying crates and relocating yet again what little Tinker gear I could assemble on the go. I could hear trucks idling in the garage, ready to move. I was supposed to be giving them directions shortly, but I could only think about the horror in Christie’s voice.  
  
It was harder to imagine fixing that. Harder to remember the excitement in her voice the last few times I called, just to catch up, to talk to a friend, maybe get a helpful tip here or there. It left a bitter taste in my mouth.  
  
I heard honking. Time was short. Who else could I call?

> “Hey, it’s me.”  
>    
>  Silence on the line for several long seconds. _Come on, not you too_.  
>    
>  “Denise?”  
>    
>  “I owe you, Chris,” she finally answered. “So I’m not going to report this call.”  
>    
>  “It’s fine if you do,” I said quickly, but she interrupted me before I could give her the usual alternate-timeline spiel.  
>    
>  “You’re on the news.”  
>    
>  My heart sank. “What?”  
>    
>  “Right now.” Then they hung up.

I swore, flipping on the small kitchen television—too old to disassemble, and besides, I was a good guest sometimes—to the local news. Weather. Okay, there was another news channel… there.  
  
My stomach flipped as I saw Colleen—Armsmaster—on the screen. Her gauntleted hands curled tightly around the edges of the wooden podium, standing in front of the blue and grey combined PRT/Protectorate logo I remembered from my debut… this was a press conference.  
  
“—involved in the explosion on Fourth street three nights ago. Members of their group include a flying Brute, as well as at least one suspected Tinker. Most dangerous, however, is the leader’s ability to affect memory and perception. Remain on alert for any occurrences of hours lost or unaccounted for, of suspicious gaps in your short-term memory, or of suddenly uncharacteristic behaviors of you friends, family, neighbors and coworkers. The PRT has lines dedicated to reporting these cases. If you—”  
  
The words faded away, leaving only her stiff posture, her tense voice, the cold fury in her eyes. It stung, every cut-off consonant and clipped vowel digging a knife into my gut.  
  
Murder.  
  
Attack.  
  
Innocents.  
  
Dangerous.  
  
Flee.  
  
I was surprised when the image cut out abruptly.  
  
I was more surprised when I saw it was my replacement hand—now shaped into a snarl of barbed tentacles, partially covered in sharp, silvery scales—that had shattered the screen.  
  
It was hard not to feel persecuted when one was— _literally_ —being persecuted, particularly by people I admired and respected, but I resisted the urge to cast myself the victim, even in my own mind. It was my mistakes that led to this, and it was my duty to fix it.  
  
I… I _could_ still fix it. I could still make it right. I was making progress, damnit! I’d already damn near ended organized sexual exploitation in the Bay—with raids against the Merchants ongoing—ended a gang war, and was getting closer to complete control over the city’s criminal element. I had removed hundreds of violent thugs and rapists from the street—either physically or mentally—for good. The streets were already safer for my being here. Even the gang members under my control were being productive members of society instead of bigoted, jackbooted thugs.  
  
_I was doing the right thing._  
  
\---  
  
The air was unseasonably chill, the wind from the Bay giving the air a cold bite that pierced through jackets, gloves and scarves. The thugs surrounding me were armed with pipes, knives, lengths of chain—the usual gang member paraphernalia—but aside from the occasional jingle or scuffle they were silent. They loomed around me like menacing shadows, dressed in dark colors except for the occasional flare of red and green.  
  
I could hear traffic passing a few streets over. The whisper of wind between the city’s endless alleyways. Eight sets of heartbeats, a staggering, polyrhythmic tattoo on my eardrums. I could feel their tension, see the coils of _anxiety-anticipation-fear-excitement_ looping around their heads.  
  
They followed my lead without question.  
  
Lung demanded that sort of unflinching obedience. That—and the charges of Lung, Hookwolf and Oni Lee I harvested every morning—ensured I had nothing to fear.  
  
Soon the sound of screeching feedback and thumping base reached my senses as well. Garish Merchant gang signs shouted their allegiances over the layers of graffiti and filt on the walls. We were almost at the whorehouse, one that had practically popped up overnight with the shutdown of most of their competition. Two of the thugs were amateur medics, equipped to handle most of what we expected to find within; the goal was to keep everyone stable long enough for me to reach them and patch them up.  
  
The Johns, however, were fair game. As were the people running the show.  
  
_Not in my city._  
  
My minions shuffled to a stop at my signal, expectant. The target was just around the corner.  
  
I opened my mouth to whisper commands—  
  
Two of my thugs dropped, abruptly, groaning as they slumped to the ground.  
  
I whirled around, looking for the attacker—  
  
A shadow, swift and flickering, descending from the rooftops with a crunch of bone beneath boot—  
  
Some of my men were quicker on the draw than others. Weapons spun—  
  
Stopped abruptly as my hand caught them.  
  
In seconds my whole crew was down, unconscious. Some from tranquilizers, some from concussions.  
  
Before me stood Shadow Stalker, hand crossbows aimed at my heart.  
  
I dropped the pipe and wrench I’d torn from the hands of my minions. They clanged shockingly loud against the damp concrete, rolling to a stop on a curb, against a discarded shoe.  
  
I split reality.

>   
>  I turned and fled, expecting bolts in the back. None came.

“Hey Stalker,” I said, my voice a study in forced casualness.  
  
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he lied.  
  
I gestured subtly in the direction of the whorehouse around the corner. “Had work to do.” Where was his backup? I could just hear their voices in his earpiece, a tinny whisper, like leaves rustling in the wind. No way the Protectorate would allow him his usual unsanctioned patrols. Not with them being so frightened of me. Not with that press conference loudly cutting ties.  
  
They probably wanted to see if I’d let him get hurt. Had Caduceus on hand, perhaps. Velocity waiting in the wings, a moment’s sprint away. I could have tested it, split the timeline again, drawn out their forces to prepare for them. I didn’t.  
  
He gestured with one crossbow at the mooks at his feet. “New friends?”  
  
I frowned. “They have their uses.”  
  
His aura remained constant— _tense-irritated-alert-cautious_ —beneath his veneer of calm aloofness. He glanced around, then holstered his crossbows. A little flurry of tiny voices. He calmly reached for his ear, pressed a button, silenced them. Stood there, examining me.  
  
“You’re strong,” he said. Begrudging, but with a tinge of respect.  
  
I looked at him, eyes narrowed. Really? Again with the predator/prey bullshit, now of all times?  
  
He took my silence for the rebuttal it was, gestured subtly at the fallen goons. “Not where I’d imagined you’d be when I first met you.”  
  
I stiffened.  
  
There were… parallels.

> _I screamed and bit and scratched, kicking wildly. My punch-knife was gone, yanked out of my hands as the first man collapsed backwards, high-pitched screeching, blood on his jeans. His friends were stronger than me. Weathered the kicks, the nicks and scrapes. One cuffed me, my head spinning, blood in my mouth. I might have bit my tongue. They were shouting right back, swearing, unfamiliar words. A few familiar ones._

“Things are different now,” I said, voice suddenly hoarse. “I’m not afraid anymore.”  
  
“You fought back, even then,” he said, again with that damnable flicker of approval.

> _One of them grabbed me by my hair, slammed my head against the alley wall. I felt something trickle down the back of my neck as the world swam. There were more shouts, thuds, impacts. Then silence. One shadow among many, but this one offered me a hand up. I batted it away weakly, heart pounding, breath wheezing. I looked around, eyes wide, searching for—_  
>    
>  _There. My knife. I threw myself towards it, sprawled on the ground, closed my fist around it. Brought it up—_  
>    
>  _He’d backed away. Ignored me. Rifled through pockets of the fallen men. Casual, like he’d just been on an evening stroll._  
>    
>  _Belatedly I noticed the cape. The hockey mask. The weapons, holstered at her—at his—hips._

“I’m sure you have a message for me,” I said, clearing my throat. I suddenly felt foolish for having stayed behind. I leaned on my other reality where I fled like a lifeline, struggling to stay above water.  
  
He nodded slowly, but ignored my request. “I wanted to see it for myself. What you’d done.”

> _Somehow I dragged myself to my feet, still wary of attack. Saw the nearest man, sprawled on the pavement, half-leaning on a brick wall. Kicked him. It barely nudged him. I kicked him harder, felt something give. He groaned._  
>    
>  _Shadow Stalker turned towards me. Not wary. Not worried. Completely unconcerned. Approving, maybe. The mask threw me off. Hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected…_  
>    
>  _My knife was still in my fist, white-knuckled, grip digging into my fingers. I looked down at the man._  
>    
>  _Terror turned to white-hot, incandescent rage. I stabbed out—_

I shuddered. “Nothing they didn’t deserve.”  
  
He stood there for a moment, considering. Spoke slowly, evenly, non-confrontational. “Think you can take on everybody?”  
  
I thought of speeches I’d heard. ‘When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world — No, _you_ move.’ I thought of what I would be saying to my old—to my friends, through Stalker. I thought of what I really wanted to convey, beyond the words.  
  
I sighed. “I don’t want to. But I will, if I have to.”  
  
Another slow nod. A pause. “You know you’re crazy, right?”

> _—only to be stop short, a grip like iron on my wrist._  
>    
>  _“Whoa there crazy chick. Kicking is fine, but I don’t want to be on the hook for manslaughter.”_  
>    
>  _I screamed wordlessly at him, struggling futilely, too angry for arguments. He was casually stronger than me. It was infuriating, demeaning. I_ twisted _, and something gave. My hand shot forward, buried itself without resistance in the fallen man’s head, the wall behind him…_

“I’m not crazy,” I replied, feeling my hearts pound, my breath fill my lungs even as I spoke. I blinked, seeing clearly in the near-pitch dark, sensed his aura waver, heard his costume creak from his weight shifting ten paces away. My feet weren’t touching the ground anymore, floating a few inches above it. In another world, I was already back at my safehouse, packing things up for another hurried move, in case I had been followed.

> _Stalker and I both stared at the shadow that was my arm, passing in and through without intersecting reality._  
>    
>  _Pulled my hand out. The man coughed, still alive._  
>    
>  _“Huh,” Shadow Stalker said._

“The world is crazy,” I continued. “I’m just trying to make it make sense.”  
  
“Good luck with that,” he said, voice distant. He turned his head off to the side. I glanced, didn’t see anyone. He didn’t pull a Batman goodbye when I wasn’t looking. Instead he added, in the kind of voice one hears at a drive-through line, “The Protectorate urges you to turn yourself in immediately, your case gets worse the longer you’re doing shit, would you like to surrender?”  
  
“...No.”  
  
“Welp, I tried.” He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the cape. “Thanks for not attacking me,” he added, as though it were an afterthought.  
  
“You’re a little shit sometimes” —I smiled to see his aura lighten— “but I don’t attack heroes.”  
  
He waved and left. I waited for the attack, but it didn’t come.  
  
I glanced in the direction of the whorehouse. Maybe the Protectorate would actually do something about it?  
  
Nah.  
  
Maybe they’d let me take care of it?  
  
Probably not.  
  
I looked down at the nameless thugs. Suppressed a shudder at the colors I’d just started to get used to.  
  
I supposed the night was a bust.  
  
I left before the time ran out on my other timeline. If I hurried, maybe I could keep this reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking forward, looking back.


	52. Day 58.52 : The Damned and the Lost

**The Damned and the Lost**  
  
“I miss you guys.”  
  
There was no reply.  
  
Battery and Assault—I still thought of them in that order, despite Ellen’s insistence—had made modifications to their costumes. Full face masks, gloves, not an inch of skin showing. We danced in the street, a three-way tango, only muffled grunts and heavy impacts rising above the sound of wind and rain.  
  
I marveled at how well they worked together even as I suffered for it. My ribs ached, hearts pounding, twisting and dodging as they hurled each other across the battlefield. Living missiles narrowly ducked or deflected.  
  
Would they have had that same long-practiced coordination had I stayed that night at the hotel?  
  
The thought distracted me long enough to catch a double-barreled dropkick to the chest, throwing me back against an alleyway dumpster, denting it with a _clang_. “Please just talk to me,” I wheezed, even as I flipped out of the way of the follow-up strike, Assault rapidly shifting momentum to keep up.  
  
It had been a trap. Inspired by Shadow Stalker’s uncomfortable reminder of my first days, I had sought closure in finding the ones... _responsible_. I hadn’t planned on what I’d do once I found them, but I hadn’t planned on the Protectorate waiting for me in their homes, either.  
  
Oni Lee was down, trapped and blinded in confoam. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to try to break her out of it—I had some ideas—because of the damnably relentless pursuit of my two coworkers.  
  
I would have discarded the timeline had things not been equally bad in the other universe.

> Dauntless was fast. Faster than me.  
>    
>  I wished I’d had the foresight to grab some of Grue’s power for cover. I felt entirely too exposed, weaving between buildings by the Docks. Couldn’t avoid using Oni Lee’s power—sensed her blinded and trapped in this timeline too—to break line of sight, ducking into abandoned warehouses and briefly into the sewers via storm drain.  
>    
>  No one I could reach with any disposable timeline probes had managed to give me a hint of the coordinated attacks. Perhaps the PRT had caught on, somehow. And catching me in both universes must have required careful planning and prodigious use of precognition. The hell had I gotten Blank for, anyway, if it didn’t protect me from this?  
>    
>  “Can we just talk this out over coffee?” I called out over my shoulder, that echo of me turning to ash just before the Arclance smashed into it like a bolt of lightning.

“Swear to god, I will actually consider surrendering if you just stop punching for a second and talk,” I insisted, eight feet tall, scaled, and dual-wielding riot shotguns. Mixed messages, sure, but it seemed to work. Ellen paused first, stopping on a dime. Julian took up a position opposite her, flanking, Tron lines glowing as she built up a charge in case I was lying.  
  
I wasn’t.  
  
Finally, Ellen shook her head, voice muffled by her mask. “D&D isn’t the same without you. And Armsie’s been insufferable all week. Won’t you come home?”  
  
_Home_.  
  
I missed my lab, the smell of ozone and metal, the familiar hums and beeps.  
  
I missed Christie’s sunny smile when she built something that told physics to shut up and sit in the corner. I missed Robin’s laugh, the way her voice sped up when she got excited. I missed Ellen’s enthusiasm and humor, her lascivious grin shared at the most inappropriate times.  
  
I missed—

> “You did this,” Dauntless called out, reproach in her voice. I’d never seen her sound so disapproving before, and that stung more than I’d expected. “You chose this,” she insisted.  
>    
>  I teleported several times in quick succession, my echoes each trying to respond before being wrecked.  
>    
>  “I didn’t—” _boom_.  
>    
>  “Intend for—” _crash_.  
>    
>  “This to—” _zap_.  
>    
>  “Go so far!—” _crunch_.  
>    
>  “You crossed a line!” Other Robin shouted, voice full of condemnation and disappointment. “Lied to us! Manipulated us!” Her accusations were punctuated by increasingly large blasts of crackling energy, the occasional flash of light as she teleported to keep me in her sights. It felt biblical; the wrath of a judgemental god lashing out at a sinner, vaporizing water as she passed.  
>    
>  She roared, _“Stop running!”_

“I want to,” I said, slowly shrinking back to my usual size. “I really do.” Rain cascaded from the sky in sheets, running down my face. I never blinked, second eyelids keeping them in my sights as much as my radar did. We’d ended up in an abandoned strip mall parking lot, flipped shopping carts serving as tumbleweeds in this spaghetti western standoff. We were all tense, breathing heavy, wishing this would all be over.  
  
“I’m living proof it can still work out,” Ellen insisted, dropping her fighting stance for a moment to gesture at herself. “If you have someone worth coming home to.” She nodded at Julian across the way, a flare of _warmth-affection-pride_ in her aura. Goddamn sappy romantic and her insufferable _shipping_. It wasn’t… there wasn’t...  
  
“I’m not sure you’d all take me back,” I said, barely audible over the loud hiss of rain.  
  
“That’s something for the courts to decide,” Julian replied, voice cold. I glanced his way, and his aura was a tangled mess of emotions. I supposed we… hadn’t really cleared things up, after his birthday. Pretended like nothing ever happened. Even if it did lead to—  
  
My time limit was almost up. Both universes were a bust, too many powers exposed, possible capture in each. Oni Lee was a write-off, no doubt swarmed by PRT agents. Maybe even… other members of the team.  
  
My guns warped into a pair of flashbangs. Both of them lunged—

> I dove into the ocean, cold and breathless, my echo running the opposite way, hopefully enough distraction to—

Even as the world exploded into light and sound, I felt their fists impacting me, the ripple of force crashing through my reinforced bones and metallic scales. Phased through gripping hands, fled before they could catch their bearings enough to pursue—

> The world exploded into lightning and pain, Dauntless’s Arclance ignoring how lightning should behave in water, piercing through my armor and seizing up my muscles. Aegis’s powers pushed me through regardless, but I was going nowhere, felt the world twist and distort as distances stretched and—  
>    
>  Et tu, Panorama?  
>    
>  I couldn’t teleport under water—  
>    
>  My muscles spasmed out of my control—  
>    
>  Dauntless slammed down on top of me—  
>    
>  Something snapped over my head, and then I felt the familiar grip of confoam—

Time ran out.  
  
I made my choice.  
  
A universe died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Protectorate ain't fuckin' around anymore.
> 
> Also, spent the whole day traveling, but technically it's still the right day in my time zone!


	53. Day 61.53 : The Gods Must Be Crazy

**The Gods Must Be Crazy**  
  
The phone didn’t even ring. Just a message, saying this number was no longer available.  
  
I stopped by Redmond Welding. It was empty, only scraps of furniture and a few boxes left behind. Me knowing where they lived had probably been too great a threat for them to ignore.  
  
I wondered how Tattletale reacted to my messages. Besides sending me Hookwolf, of course, and ruining my carefully executed plan against Lung and Oni Lee. Based on that alone, he wasn’t happy with me—not that he had been before.  
  
He wouldn’t have believed me, of course. But he’d known I believed what I’d said. Or at least did most of the time, when the reality of my circumstances felt too undeniable and painful to disregard. I wonder what he’d gleaned from it. Perhaps he had had enough information to suspect Cauldron placing me here. Or maybe I was a Simurgh plot?  
  
I supposed I’d never find out. He was gone, and I had no idea where to follow.  
  
Fortunately, he’d left a note with my name on it. An address.  
  
It was a trap, of course. I knew that, even if Tattletale hadn’t freely offered the information I wanted.  
  
The Protectorate waiting for me at the homes of the thugs who’d attacked me my first day was evidence enough of that. They knew, either from Shadow Stalker confessing or Dean’s precognition, that I was looking for these men. Looking to close the door on that chapter of my life, before I moved on to bigger, better things.  
  
It was important to me. Had grown more so as time passed, as I gained powers, as I solidified my control over the underworld of Brockton Bay. What I didn’t claim, I neutered. What I didn’t neuter, I destroyed.  
  
The ABB was under my control—aside from Oni Lee, who no longer registered on my senses. The most dangerous remnants of Empire waited at my beck and call, the rest having fled to Boston. The Merchants were a ghost of their former selves, never to rise again from the ashes, even if Leviathan did wreck the Bay. Coil… well. We still had our agreement, I supposed. Her forces never attacked me, at least. Between that and her not capturing Dean, not inviting the Travelers, not revealing the Empire’s identities… I counted that a win in my book.  
  
It was only a matter of time before I went straight again. Walked onto the Rig with the entire Bay’s parahuman criminal population in perfect lockstep behind me. Got to wave off my earlier sins as miscalculations, overenthusiasm, things to be swept under the rug.  
  
And unlike Taylor—bless their heart—I could actually do it.  
  
Probably.  
  
Pretty sure.  
  
I didn’t want to think of what would happen if I were wrong. I missed my friends, my lab too much to stay out much longer. I could talk things out with my teammates—in reality, this time—and wear my power armor again and make wonderful things with my fellow Tinkers and everything would be fine. Just fine. I’d gotten what I needed, did what had to be done, and was ready to end the charade and _come home_.  
  
Except for one little detail. One last bit of closure I needed before I turned myself back in, faced whatever consequences my mistakes bore, opened the door to the next chapter of my life.  
  
And now I knew where they were hiding.  
  
\---  
  
The three men I was looking for hadn’t even been arrested.  
  
They were under _‘protective custody’._  
  
I debated what to do with my puppets even as I practiced my control over them.  
  
“A head on attack is simplest,” Lung declared confidently. “Show them what you are capable of. Make them all regret standing between you and what you want.”  
  
“You don’t want to hurt your brothers in arms,” Hookwolf countered, causing Lung to snort in derision. It was a challenge putting them in the same room together without sparking a fight, but I needed to be sure I could do it.  
  
“If they oppose your goals, they are not brothers,” Lung snapped back, expressions and aura shifting abruptly as I tweaked and snipped and prodded her brain. No, don’t get angry, stop that.  
  
“Like you’d know what loyalty meant, you—” Hookwolf’s jaw clamped shut, eyes going glassy at my power’s interruption. Bad dog. No biscuit.  
  
Lung sneered at her—another _twist_ —then forgot she existed, turning back to me. “If you refuse to hurt them, then let me go. They will run rather than fight.”  
  
“The slant has a point,” Othala said—goddamnit stop that!—and then abruptly sneezed several times in rapid succession. When he recovered, he added, “You have more than enough capes to split their defenses apart. Divide and conquer.”  
  
His wife Victoria chimed in, making some good points.  
  
Stormtiger made some bad ones.  
  
Rune glared at Lung, who ignored him.  
  
I was kind of glad Radiant had taken Night, Fog and Crusader along with him, and that Alabaster, Huginn and Muninn were in custody. Six portal connections were a lot to maintain, technologically, and far more to keep track of, mentally.  
  
It would have been simpler to destroy their minds and leave them complete meat-puppets, but I’d learned my lesson. Minds broke if you twisted them too far, and the results were unpredictable even if you didn’t have a Space Whale hooked into your brain. I didn't need unpredictable. I needed reliable.  
  
No deaths. No major property damage. This operation would be swift, clean, and competent.  
  
\---

> _Oh god everything was on fire._

\---  
  
Take thirty-two.  
  
Half of the former Empire members were in temporary comas for safekeeping and logistic reasons. And so any distractions or accidental modifications wouldn’t result in horribly timed rebellions or psychotic breaks.  
  
Faultline’s Crew were poised and ready for my signal, and had been for forty-five minutes now. Fortunately they were nothing if not professional, in every timeline. Really cleaved to their mercenary neutrality, only asked as many questions as they needed to get the job done.  
  
As for the distraction… I didn’t know why Lung _had_ to wear a showgirl outfit, but it was apparently necessary to get the response I needed from the Protectorate.  
  
Frankly, when Faultline and company—having done their part without incident, finally—dropped off three unconscious men in prison sweats to my nondescript warehouse, I was starting to worry if they were worth the trouble I’d gone through to get them.  
  
I waited, eyes and ears and other senses open, up until I hit my time limit.  
  
I made my choice. Sealed my fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hail, hail, the gang's all here  
>  What the heck do we care  
>  What the heck do we care  
>  Hail, hail, the gang's all here  
>  What the heck do we care now


	54. Day 61.54 : Revelations

**Revelations**  
  
I kneeled down between them. Laid them each out so they were angled, feet out, heads together in front of me. Carefully I went through my portal connections, shut them each down in turn. Across the city, six supervillains slumbered. Fewer distractions.  
  
Reaching out—hesitant, despite all the work it had taken to get me here—I placed my hands between them, fingers splayed, so I was in contact with all three at once.  
  
And I dove into their minds.  
  
At different points in the last two months, I might have tortured them, or killed them, or warped their bodies beyond recognition. I might have decided to trap them, helpless, in their own bodies. Let them feel how their victims felt, how powerless they were against a stronger foe.  
  
I still might.  
  
I’d had enough practice, however—and enough perspective—to instead take a different tack.  
  
I wanted to _understand_ them.  
  
Why had they attacked me? Why had they attacked others? Why had they inflicted such pain, such trauma, on people who did nothing to them? Why had they given me so many nightmares, made me jump at shadows, force me to be _lesser_? There had to be more of a reason, I thought, than ‘because they could’.  
  
Some part of me still believed in the inherent goodness in humanity, despite all evidence to the contrary.  
  
I dug deep into their memories. Lived their lives on fast-forward, as they remembered it. Saw how the pivotal events in their years stacked on top of one another. The decisions they’d made, the decisions that had been made for them, the challenges they’d faced, the ways they’d overcome them—or failed to. The consequences of their choices and the consequences of things completely outside their control.  
  
I got to know them on an intimate level they couldn’t even know themselves. Answered questions they wouldn’t have even dreamed of asking. Saw past the layers of self-deception and myth into who they actually _were_ , synapses laid out before me like tangled history books. Saw into their very souls.  
  
I even saw myself, there, three parallel images. The distorted ways they remembered certain details but not others. How some heard my screams, captured in high fidelity in their minds. How others remembered the look on my face, my wide eyes, my bared teeth. One, still scarred, remembered the way the knife felt as it buried itself into him. It hurt like other knife wounds they’d had before, ice at first—shock—then fire, pulsing with every heartbeat.  
  
I experienced what they did as they did it, as they… as they broke me, and…  
  
_And I felt ashamed._  
  
Guts twisted, breathing heavy, eyes hot, hearts pounding—I understood what they had because _I felt it too_. Knew it intimately. Knew it even as I had them at my mercy, powerless before me, defenseless and terrified.  
  
I wouldn’t forgive them. Couldn’t. What they did, for their various reasons, was _fucked up_. Was _wrong_.  
  
But I understood them all too well.  
  
Gasping, I broke the connection, falling back as if struck. I was trembling, couldn’t stop. Couldn’t get enough air.  
  
I couldn’t—  
  
I wasn’t—  
  
All those _people—_  
  
_This is who I am now._  
  
_I am in control of myself and my body._  
  
The words never felt so horribly true.  
  
Armsmaster found me there, sobbing, shattered, trying to pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment you realize, "Hans, are we the baddies?"


	55. Day 61.55 : Reasons

**Reasons**  
  
She didn’t attack me, even though I expected her to. Just stood there, halberd raised my way, every muscle tense, brow furrowed—as if daring me to move, to fight back, to run. To do anything but sit there and slowly lose my shit.  
  
I blinked up at her, too emotionally exhausted to move, hands covering my mouth as if terrified I’d say the wrong thing and she’d leave me and I’d deserve it, oh god would I deserve it.  
  
I could almost hear her teeth grind behind her mask. Saw her aura flare with contradictory emotions, _pity-hate-anger-sadness-despair-rage-exhaustion-fear_ , some I didn’t even recognize.  
  
Finally, she growled out a single word. _“Why?”_  
  
I took a breath, hiccupped. Couldn’t quite fill my lungs, however many of them there were now. She watched with growing impatience as I tried to find the words, the grip on her halberd tightening—  
  
“I wanted to make the world a better place,” I breathed out, barely audible. Shouting, to my ears.  
  
Colleen snapped back— _anger-betrayal_ —“By messing with my head?”  
  
My brain skipped a little, even after everything else. “...What?”  
  
_“Don’t,”_ she almost shouted. “Don’t play stupid with me, Chris.”  
  
I tried to get my thoughts back into gear. Make words good. “I didn’t—I’m not. I never touched you. I refused to.” At least _one_ rule I didn’t break. I took another shaky breath. “That’s why I ran. Because you were getting… too close.” I felt something stir awake, start moving. I ignored it.  
  
“Too _close_!?” She was definitely shouting now. I barely recognized her. “As if that wasn’t your intention the entire time!”  
  
“My intent? I… I don’t understand.”  
  
Colleen’s voice was a maelstrom of fury and fear, filling the warehouse, the world. "After all the time we spent together, the trust and respect I thought we had, do you know what it felt like to find out it was a lie? That you'd been abusing your powers, invading people’s minds? That everything I thought was mine might have just been something _you put there_?"  
  
"Colleen, I swear, I never—"  
  
_"I thought I loved you, you selfish sack of shit!"_  
  
I just—  
  
What?  
  
No. No, no, no no _no no no_ —  
  
"I... I didn't do that." My voice was small, even to my own ears. Alien sensations pricked at the edges of my awareness. I shut them out, trying to understand, to make myself understood.  
  
_"Bullshit!"_ She was roaring now, eyes wide and wild, menacing me with words and weapons, aura a brilliant corona of _doubt-fear-distrust-rage_. "Even if I wanted to believe that, that could just be you using your power on me!"  
  
I opened my mouth, a creaking sound like old hinges escaping my lips. I couldn’t—there was nothing I could—how could I even—what could I say or do to—  
  
"No.” Colleen’s voice, so patient, so thoughtful, was as final as the grave. “This ends one way. With you in chains, on the way to the Birdcage."  
  
I heard myself answer, as if from a great distance. “Okay.”  
  
Her aura stuttered, swirled. It was so pretty, I could almost forget what it meant.  
  
A sliver of _confusion-relief-disappointment_ traced the edges, her voice lowering a few notches. "You'll come quietly?"  
  
I forced myself to nod, as though I was one of my own puppets. "If that's what it takes, yeah.” That tickle in the back of my mind finally snapped into conscious thought, crystallized into awareness. I added, “I'll tell the others to stand down."  
  
Colleen tilted her head slightly. "Others?"  
  
"Hookwolf. Lung and Oni Lee. Stormtiger, Othala and Victoria. Rune, too.” I could feel them approaching. Awakened, drawn to me subconsciously. Ready to defend me. Fight for me. Die for me. So many pings on my radar I hadn’t even noticed, and not even all of them. The whole Protectorate must have been outside, ready to back me—no, to back Armsmaster up _against_ me.  
  
Her brow furrowed deeper, eyes red, gauntlets creaking as they tightened around the grip of her halberd, aimed at my face. I knew what was in there. Helped rebuild it, improve it. Hours Tinkering alongside her, never realizing—  
  
A trickle of doubt dripped down my spine. What if it actually had been my power? Could I have used it without knowing, like I had just summoned my—my _victims_ , to fight and die at my demand?  
  
I didn’t want to be here. Wanted to be anywhere but here, facing her...  
  
I could still escape.  
  
My puppets could, _would_ overwhelm the Protectorate as I ran. My teammates. My friends. Hookwolf alone...  
  
But at what cost? How many injuries? How many deaths? I could feel Lung's anger building like a banking flame, urge to fight burning inside her, scales ready to burst through her skin. Sensed her vicious anticipation, the calm before the storm, one that would break and tear and destroy—  
  
I ordered her to step into the light, to surrender.  
  
All of them.  
  
I heard Armsmaster's comms burst to life. Tiny, panicked voices. She said nothing, watching, waiting.  
  
I was already on the ground, not far from where—not far from the men. Sleeping, unharmed. One thing I could feel less horrible about. I shifted so I was on my knees, hands behind my head. I closed my eyes.  
  
The halberd twisted, and my world went dark.  
  
_I'm sorry, Colleen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all over but the crying.
> 
> Also, to my fellow Hotarms shippers: You were right! And yet tragically wrong.


	56. Day 6X.56 : The Desert of the Real

**The Desert of the Real**  
  
Everything was quiet.  
  
I had nothing but time to think.  
  
This was unfortunate, as I did not _want_ to think.  
  
The sentencing had been brief, with me only vaguely present for it. If I had been at all. I didn’t think there’d been much publicity. Didn’t remember a jury, or much debate.  
  
The Birdcage… it was really a terrible choice for me, objectively speaking. A power buffet. I’d have wondered who pulled the strings to get me sent there—but there wasn’t really much question, was there?  
  
The transport was comfortable, at least. More like a sensory deprivation tank than anything. Hermetically sealed, packed tight with confoam, kept at a perfectly neutral temperature. I was blind, deaf, and suspended in place. There weren’t even bacteria on my skin, which would probably play havoc with my complexion, if I cared about that sort of thing. They didn’t even have to risk giving me an air mask, simply filling the remaining space in my coffin with sterile, lukewarm, slowly aerated water.  
  
I was impressed, really.  
  
I tried to imagine how it was constructed. The precautions. How they’d planned around all my known abilities, any they thought I might have had. If I’d grabbed Rune’s power, I might have just flown myself away. Wouldn’t that have been a sight? A roaming sarcophagus, a wandering prison.  
  
I focused on that and not her.  
  
I planned on what I’d say to the Faerie King instead of what I’d say to her if I saw her again. The emptiness within—like half a dozen phantom limbs—was absolutely the loss of my minions and not the aching awareness of distance, physical and emotional.  
  
I decided how to take out Acid Bath instead of thinking of her, alone on the Rig, stewing in emotions she couldn’t trust, feeling a longing that stung like betrayal, never reaching closure, never knowing the truth, never knowing if she could _believe_ that truth even if she wanted to—  
  
There was a bump. One strong enough that even nestled in my cocoon of negative thoughts I could feel it. I rushed into the distraction, straining my ears for further sounds. Had we stopped? Was Dragon waiting for me, ready to drop me down a chute into the end of days?  
  
Then nothing. Stillness and silence. I focused on that, on the paranoia that perhaps I hadn’t been destined for the Birdcage at all. That I was to be left alone in my coffin until The Events of That Thursday. A nuclear missile waiting in its launch bunker, counting seconds until my freedom. It was almost encouraging, a problem I could solve. Something to focus my thoughts on instead of all the mistakes I’d made, one after the other like a cascading waterfall of rationalizations and self-deceit. Instead of the differences I could have made, different futures forever out of reach, events trapped in the immutable past like me in my sarcophagus.  
  
After what felt like years—but was probably only a few hours—I heard a crackle. Electronic, not far from my head, distorted somewhat by the liquid medium. I could feel it as much as hear it, but fuzzy, indistinct.  
  
_“What_ — _you do?”_  
  
I tried not to let my hearts leap at the thought that I hadn’t been forgotten after all. Even distorted, the voices sounded wonderful, anything to replace the damning silence.  
  
Then I parsed the words, blinked, felt water swish around my eyelids. Talking was weird with fluid filling my lungs, but I tried. “Wha?”  
  
The sound repeated, a voice, still there—I hadn’t been forgotten. _“—the hell did—take us?”_  
  
“I don’t understand,” I declared, enunciating as carefully as I could. Had something happened? Had the bump been more than just a pothole?  
  
My mind raced. I didn’t have any allies outside of… I mean, Lung, Hookwolf and the others had strict orders. They were to be model prisoners. Coil? I wouldn’t say we were on the best of terms. That left—  
  
There was a shuddering in my cocoon. A small, repetitive vibration, amplified by the foam.  
  
I squinted, my eyes adjusting quickly, but gasped nonetheless at the sudden rush of light. Water spilled out from around my head, eliciting muttered swearing from my captors. I was faced with two helmeted troopers, visors up, unfamiliar. They were sweating profusely, and I could feel the oppressive heat rolling in from the open doors of the transport van.  
  
_“What did you do?”_ The first trooper demanded, aura furious with tints of panic.  
  
I looked past him to a vast, and empty endless desert. Nothing but cracked earth; not a plant or geographical feature from here to the horizon.  
  
_“What did you do?”_  
  
\---  
  
We were stranded.  
  
Radio didn’t work. Or, rather, it worked, but nobody was sending anything. GPS got no signal.  
  
The view wasn’t any better when I flew higher. Distant mountains to the East, dunes to the West, only more desert for the rest, stretching out past the horizon as far as I could tell.  
  
The PRT troopers finally accepted I hadn’t been responsible for the… _displacement_ when they saw that I was just as lost as they were. Literally speaking, anyway. Their story gave me all the confirmation I needed.  
  
A hole in space, roughly square, had appeared without warning directly in front of the van. No time to evade or swerve. The bump I felt was the sudden drop onto the desert, where I could see tire tracks appearing from nowhere after a small divot.  
  
The heat of day was unbearable, the cold at night only slightly better. I was fine, of course; my skin grew leathery and my mouth dry, but those were more from Aegis’s adaptations than the dehydration. Even the sun slowly grew less bright, until the glare seemed like a still, sunny day in spring.  
  
The troopers had more trouble. I hadn’t asked if they wanted to be modified—I wasn’t sure how to help them that way even if they were willing to risk physical contact with me—but they had freed me, rather than letting me slowly bake in my coffin, and the least I could do was to help keep them alive in turn.  
  
I don’t need to mention how exactly I did so. Nor did I have to explain how I dismantled the van, created cover and tools and plans. Suffice to say, Space Whale Magic was involved.  
  
Water and shelter first. Stay put so you’re found. That was what the survival guides said, right?  
  
Trooper Miles Hutchinson was quiet, experienced, level-headed. Trooper Aaron Wong was logical, thorough, mechanically-oriented, and had an attention to detail that probably earned him his job as Birdcage transport driver. They talked little, only occasionally interrupting my Tinker fugues to ask on progress or inquire as to what I was planning on turning that engine into, precisely.  
  
We talked more when the sun went down, gathered around each other for warmth. Miles looked thoughtful, rubbing his hands together before the small campfire emerging from my outstretched palm.  
  
“Where do you think we are, anyway?” he asked finally, through gritted teeth. I flared my pyrokinesis a little brighter, and he leaned a little bit away—but not much.  
  
“Another Earth, probably.”  
  
Miles nodded, accepting my guess without question.  
  
Aaron looked thoughtful, looking up at the billions of stars unhidden by artificial lights. “Constellations are the same,” he hedged, “but Aleph has GPS. Radio. A third, maybe?” I nodded. He dubbed this world Gimel, and us its new protectors. Our own Protectorate—I had enough powers for the three of us to make up for their lack.  
  
We sat in silence for a while further. I tried not to think. Failed miserably.  
  
I had to have known, at some point. I’d seen colors in her aura I hadn’t recognized. I knew how _I_ felt about her, but had never openly considered she could even—I mean, Dragon was a man in this universe, and I was…  
  
She’d asked me once—exactly once—what pronouns I wanted her to use. I’d shrugged, not sure myself, and we’d settled on ‘they/them/theirs’. Then she used them for me ever since, without question. Didn’t bat an eyelash at the beard, or the voice. Accepted me for whatever the hell gender I felt like that day and didn’t care. Not in the ‘your problems are outside of scope’ way, but in a ‘gender is a social construct and I’m too busy, let’s get back to Tinkering’ way.  
  
“You’re a lot quieter than most prisoners,” Aaron said out of the blue. I glanced his way, saw his unyielding aura barely tinged with fear. “Usually we get some threats, or shouting, or begging. Not that we normally hear much, but there’s often something.”  
  
“I turned myself in,” I admitted.  
  
Aaron and Miles exchanged looks. The former raised one eyebrow, but the latter was stone-faced, stoic. I could see disbelief in their auras. Didn’t mind it much. I’d grown accustomed to that much since my first day, filling out paperwork to join the Protectorate. _Yes, I was a man. No, I don’t know who the president is. Yes, I otherwise have my memories. No, I don’t have valid ID or a verifiable background. Yes, I would like to stay on the Rig—look, where do I sign?_  
  
“Don’t know how long we’re going to be here,” Aaron said after a few minutes comfortable silence. “Might as well tell a story or two to pass the time.”  
  
Miles looked at me, and I closed my eyes and sighed. It had been a while since I’d spoken with anyone who wasn’t a member of the Protectorate or a—a _slave_. Some things still felt too raw to delve into, too deeply intertwined with everything that had happened in this god-forsaken universe to break into casual, easily-digestible pieces. I didn’t even know where to start. I opened my mouth to say as much—  
  
“Did I ever tell you how I met my wife?” Miles was addressing Aaron, but I felt his attention on me regardless. I smiled my thanks, half-listening to his story. Even laughed at a few points. Hitchhiking, really? The same woman twice, years apart? The second time after the two of you had each just gotten out of your first marriages? It seemed too implausible to be true, but he swore it, and his aura confirmed it. That unfamiliar color, now known, understood. It twisted something inside me, tightened my throat.  
  
Aaron spoke next. A story about his nephew’s first soccer game. Record set for most goals against your own team. He was beaming with pride and crying with laughter at the same time. Couldn’t help but laugh along with him—felt that knot loosen just a fraction.  
  
It took two more stories—Miles watching me out of the corners of his eyes, measuring, cautious—before I felt I could speak.  
  
“I’m not from Bet,” I said, and I felt their disbelief again. Pressed on. Told my story. Put words to thoughts. It felt like a puzzle snapping together, piece by piece. First the outsides, an edge to frame my experiences, bounds to work within. Words clicked together, little islands of interconnected scenes that gradually met, became part of a whole. I had them in tears when I told them about stealing Ellen’s Camaro. Saw their recognition and respect when I mentioned the murdercycle—that had made the news.  
  
I told them about the night of the Empire’s fall. Put into actual words, never before spoken, what had transpired that night. They exchanged glances again. They’d known what my powers were—enough to serve as my temporary guards, at least—but I didn’t think they’d known, that _anyone_ had known, how it all began.  
  
How things escalated.  
  
The mistakes I’d made. The things I’d been blind to. The good things—things I loved, people I cared about, a future I’d have fought to keep and support—that I’d let slip by, blinded by hate and fear. Vengeance disguised as justice.  
  
I felt the anger build, then. Not at them, or the people who had hurt me, but at myself. Scales crept along my skin, but couldn’t protect me from the story I was telling. Couldn’t fight the past. Couldn’t tear apart the world I’d built with my arrogance. Couldn’t burn away the shame.  
  
I’d been on the verge of having everything I wanted. Respect. Power. A purpose.  
  
Friends. Something more.  
  
I’d expected more fear in their eyes, or their auras. More disgust, like what I felt towards myself. There was some—one didn’t become a driver for Birdcage-bound felons out of an overpowering sense of empathy towards parahuman serial killers, or worse—but it was only a fraction of my own; inconsequential. I was talking more for myself than for them.  
  
And so I was caught off guard when Miles leaned forward, put a hand on my shoulder. I had been seeing through my skin again—tears having filled my eyes—and almost didn’t recognize the offer of support for what it was.  
  
I didn’t move. Kept carefully still. I’d told them what horrible things I could do with a touch. How easy it was to jump down that slippery slope. How fragile people were—soap bubbles made of meat and blood and easily twisted thoughts.  
  
I even let the fire in my hands sputter out, afraid I’d hurt them with that, too.  
  
Aaron joined a moment later, hand on my other shoulder. I didn’t want to open my eyes to see their auras. Did it anyway. It was like looking into a distant pair of mirrors, sadness and hurt and sorrow reflecting my own.  
  
Eventually they—being fragile, weak humans—went to sleep, leaving me to work alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company.  
  
I felt lighter. A fraction more hopeful. A few more days of work and I could maybe get this thing finished.  
  
Maybe I could see them all again.  
  
Maybe I could apologize. Even if they didn’t believe me—couldn’t believe me—I wanted to say it anyway. The thought fueled my Tinkering, kept my hands and blades and flames moving. Gave me something to work towards. A possible redemption, perhaps.  
  
Small, but measurable, incremental growth.  
  
\---  
  
On the seventh day, god rested, but I kept working through the dawn.  
  
Finished the last micro-weld, fused the last crystal, slotted the last module into place.  
  
A true Door was beyond my understanding, despite my work with portals in the past. But a beacon? A beacon I could do. A message, broadcast into the void between worlds. A shout of ‘hey fuckers, I’m here, come get me’ to screech through radios on untold worlds. Skywriting between universes, fueled by my own eternal flame and Space Whale Fuckery. A bristling, spiked steel tower a hundred feet high—in a dozen different, folded dimensions—grown from nothing more than a PRT van and my own body.  
  
I was proud. I was excited to turn it on.  
  
Of course that was when the Number Woman appeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number Woman categorically refuses to wear pants.


	57. Day 7X.57 : Ascend

**Ascend**  
  
I stood there, one hand buried in the guts of my construct, ready to ignite it and send a signal flare into the cosmos, and watched the sharply dressed nerd stand there in the desert. Miles and Aaron had retreated to a safe distance behind a jagged steel blast shield—just because I was effectively immune to radiation didn’t mean they should be exposed to the vast interdimensional energies spilling forth from the bleed—and we were angled so they couldn’t see the intruder. They probably assumed I was making last minute adjustments.  
  
Also, there was a small end table.  
  
On it, a bottle of water dripping with condensation, and my favorite protein bar; coconut. It offended me, that little detail. A reminder of an intimate moment, or at least the morning after. The kind of detail an overconfident Thinker would add, thinking they understood me.  
  
I stared at her, eyed her pencil skirt and her immaculate white shirt, starched and perfectly creased. A tasteful tie, with understated pin. Short-cropped blonde hair and thin-framed glasses. A posture that was utterly nonthreatening. Armored in normalcy.  
  
I felt her power the instant she appeared. Grabbed it. Not one charge, but _all of them_. A week in the desert with no parahumans to claim had channeled all my power into improving itself, and…  
  
The world filled with math. As though it were penciled in the air in thread-thin, elaborate notation, I could see the geometry and the numbers unfolding across the world around me. The Number Woman slowly pulled off her glasses, took a pocket square and wiped off a fleck of sand. I could see it fall.  
  
The notation billowed around it, and through it I could see the movement of the sand, the plotted trajectory, the velocity and rotation of it, how the wind tossed it around. The numbers clicked into place with a speed that made the rest of me, my very _perceptions_ , seem like slow motion.  
  
I turned my attention to my guest, saw the posture that had seemed so nonthreatening now brimming with barely-restrained potential. How the slightest shift of her weight could throw her in a hundred different directions, dodging any number of possible attacks. Her distance from me, calculated within a fraction of a inch to give her the most advantage should I turn violent. 

> That wouldn’t save her.  
>   
> She had experience, but I had firepower. A touch was all it took, but before I could connect that last millimeter—after a frantic blur of last second movements, dodges, counter-dodges, and counter-counter-dodges—a tiny gap in reality opened in mid-air, just large enough to capture my fingertips before they could finish closing the distance.  
>   
> Of course. She wouldn’t have been sent here _completely_ undefended.

I smiled, a little impatient, more than a little frustrated at her impeccable timing.  
  
“You could have just asked,” I said, not without some heat in my voice.  
  
“We had our doubts,” she answered casually. One could even say her tone was… _measured_.  
  
I had spent too much time in the desert.  
  
I tried to wrestle my mind back into focus. It was hard ignoring the numbers. I closed my eyes, but of course it didn’t help. That was probably part of the plan as well. A sacrifice, a handicap, and a threat all in one.  
  
All of this had been a test. To see if I could be trusted.  
  
I gestured fractionally with my head in the direction of the blast shield and the two patient PRT troopers, one eyebrow raised in question.  
  
She nodded just as minutely.  
  
They were seeing if I would get revenge on my apparent captors. If I’d value the lives of two disposable troopers over the inconvenience of keeping them from dying in the desert. If I’d control them. If I’d harvest them for parts, maybe.  
  
It sounded like a Cauldron thing to do. Couldn’t blame them for it, really. I hadn’t made the best first impression, in the end. _Regrets, I’ve had a few_.  
  
They’d better be returned to Bet after this—they didn’t deserve to be abandoned here.  
  
I took a deep breath, slotting my thoughts in order like components in my tower.  
  
Opened my eyes, met her gaze with my own, intent. "I know about you. I know your resources."  
  
"We are aware.” Of course they were. “And his answer is 'it will take time'."  
  
I sighed, deflating slightly. There were two things I wanted, really. To save the world, but more importantly, _to make things right_. To fix what I’d done, to repair my broken friendships, to speak with Colleen like we had just a few weeks before… and even Contessa—the Count? Sounded odd—couldn’t fix shattered trust quickly without relying on a slightly different sort of mind control than the one that got me in trouble in the first place.  
  
"...I'm not sure why I expected any different."  
  
A tiny smile, enigmatic but genuinely—faintly—amused.  
  
I looked up at my tower, now likely never to be used. Or, knowing Cauldron, me building it would have a different purpose later on down the line that I had never considered. Maybe a light slap in the face of the Great Golden Idiot, to get her attention? Who knew. It probably wasn’t a complete waste, at least. Small consolation, and delayed gratification at that. Something I supposed I’d have to get used to. I pulled my forearm out of the machine with some reluctance.  
  
Enough dithering. They knew what I wanted and were willing to help. I knew what they wanted and was willing to help. It was a beginning just as much as it was an ending. When life closes a door... I smash a hole in the wall with my power armor.  
  
“Alright,” I said, clapping my hands free of dust and sand.  
  
“Let’s get fuckin’ started, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends HOTSWAP. It's been a hell of a ride. Thank you all for coming along.
> 
> Once again I'd like to thank my kind and generous betas, frustratedFreeboota and Kittius, as well as support/ideas from Cauldron/Discord users including EtchJetty, Husr, RagingCitrusTree, keira, RDavidson, and others. If you contributed and I forgot to mention you, I will be happy to edit you in.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for HOTSWAP](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934070) by [coverArtist (inklesspen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inklesspen/pseuds/coverArtist)




End file.
